Rescue me
by codename.penguin
Summary: A badly beaten Sherlock is grateful for a little help, even if his doctor is a bit battered himself. AU. Wing!lock
1. Mutation

**Anote**: I appear to be obsessed with AU's recently. Here is a dabble into the Winglock universe which I find fascinating! My world is normal except for the fact that some people have wings. This is a friendship story. I stole the image off the internet. Let me know if it is yours.

Chapter 1-**Mutation**

As a child, John never thought much about his appearance.

People cooed over him and stared in wonder, and asked him to unfurl his wings, but he never thought much about it really. Then he went to high school, where looking different was guaranteed to get you bullied and pushed around. University was better. Everyone was much too terrified of failing exams to be too picky about what study group they were in, and everyone wanted to be his group, because he was at the top of the class.

Now as a grown man, John was not self conscious when people stared at his wings as he walked down the street.

It was just a way of life.

Sometimes his unique mutation even came in handy in his chosen profession, because a patient fighting and struggling in pain, would just stop and gawk in amazement when the doctor gently opened his wings over them. Not once had this maneuver failed because, as his mother had put it, when John extended his wings like that he looked like an angel.

The reason for such a dramatic and somewhat poetic statement was because John's wings were pure white, caused by a rare mutation that appeared in one in every five million people. John didn't even think that there was anyone else in England with the trait. Most everyone who had wings either had black, or brown or cream or some mix in between, according to their hair colour.

It was during his tour in Afghanistan, however when John had found a new use for his unusually colored wings.

A little girl was dying in his arms, and she had pointed at his back and begged for them. His superiors had told him under no circumstances was he to do so, as their brilliant color could make him an instant target in the red sand desert, as sure as a bulls-eye on his back.

But how could he refuse?

He opened his wings and wrapped it around the girl who was little more than a toddler, and held her close until she passed. Tears had rolled down his dust covered cheeks, as he used his hand to close her eyes that seemed at peace, now that her spirit was in a place where there was no more pain.

He had found himself doing this a lot during this time, both for his own men as well as the 'enemy'.

There were so many dead.

When he returned to England, he didn't open his wings anymore because he wasn't sure he could.

An enemy bullet had fractured one of the small but vital bones, and the doctors didn't have much hope that he would ever fly again. Sometimes, he tried to at least open them when he was alone in his dark little room in the men's hostel, but it was too painful and he would fall face down on the bed exhausted, and cry himself to sleep. It was true what people said; you never really value something until it wasn't there any longer.

So one day John Watson, ex-army captain and army doctor was walking around aimlessly; worrying about his rent money, when several shadows in the sky caught his eye.

The winged didn't really fly in the city because the danger of collision was very real.

There were designated areas for them of course, usually in the same areas where other people jogged, but this wasn't one of those areas. In fact, this was one of those areas where there were so much electrical wire and narrow alleys, that it would almost be considered as suicide.

Curious now he peeked down the closest alley. It took him a moment to realize that the black smudge on the ground was actually a person.

'Hey!' he shouted as he ran forward bravely, 'you alright?'

The black smudge didn't move.

John groaned in sympathy to see the mess of the stranger's face, as he brushed away the long, dark curls that had fallen over the man's eyes.

'Someone call an ambulance!' John shouted to some curious on-lookers who had crept closer. 'This fellow has been attacked, I think by those people flying off there!'

As he took off his coat and lay it gently over the man's battered body, John immediately started doctoring with what little he had in his pockets. He also grabbed up a long blue scarf that lay on the ground nearby and wadded it up, preparing to use it as a bandage if needed.

'Don't worry, you are safe,' he murmured, as he had ran his hands expertly down the man's sides, straining his eyes looking for blood. 'Hang on, don't move.'

As John worked, a pair of grey blue eyes slowly opened to look up at him, but the doctor was so occupied that he didn't notice. In the gloomy alley it was hard to see anything, which would explain why he didn't notice the injured man also had wings, and that these wings were quietly unfurling into an attack posture. Higher and higher, the midnight blue black appendages loomed over and around John, like a cage of darkness.

The faint threatening rustle was the only warning John got.

The two men both sucked in a deep breath of shock, as John's wings instinctively shot out to protect him, causing their wings to sift together.

This was generally considered to be an incredibly intimate gesture, partly because it involved a great deal of trust as they could both be injured if one of them moved to quickly now. But John couldn't worry about the social awkwardness of their position just at the moment, because as his wings had snapped open, an explosion of blinding pain ran through his body, almost causing him to throw up.

As such, the poor doctor's eyes rolled up in the back of his head, and in the next moment he knew nothing more.


	2. The Angel of death

**Anote:** I feel flattered that my usual readers who are not really interested in Winglock, are taking the time out to read this story, just because they like my writing. Thanks so much! I might be able to do some short posts during the week. Suggestions are welcome.

Chapter 2- **The Angel of death**

With a groan, John lifted his head, only to be stopped as powerful hands closed over his biceps; immobilizing him in place.

'You can of course, sit up, but please do so carefully,' a hoarse voice whispered somewhere near his left ear, 'our wings are still locked together.'

It would be an understatement to say that John was mortified to find his limbs all tangled up with a stranger, and with a man to make it worse!

'However, if you would be so kind as to _not_ move at all,' the same voice continued, 'I would be forever in your debt.'

'What happened?' John asked automatically, as he lay his head back down on the man's shoulder. He felt uncomfortable of course, because of the rules of social proximity, but not afraid. The man who held him had the polished accents of a gentleman, not a street ruffian and besides, John could hear other people moving around them.

'I miscalculated and was beaten to a pulp, you tried to help and fainted, and now the paramedics are here to save the day,' the man summarized succinctly, 'thank you for not moving. I strongly suspect that two of my ribs are damaged.'

Dear God!

'I'm sorry,' John cried, appalled that he had collapsed on a person who may have broken ribs. Helplessly, he twisted his head around and up, to scowl at their wings woven unevenly together.

'Do not apologise. I am off my game today,' the man corrected him, 'I have sadly misjudged the events of this evening, and I thought you were one of them coming back to finish me off. Thank you for ...err... stopping. It was ...quite good of you, to ...to want to help.'

'Big help I turned out to be,' John quipped sourly, as his shoulders trembled with the effort of staying still.

'You were a big help,' the man insisted in a soft voice, 'because of you, I didn't have to be alone in the darkness and the pain.'

'But I must be hurting you now!?' John insisted in return.

'I would of course rather you _not_ be lying on my chest,' the stranger remarked calmly, 'but there is no way you can help it, at this present time. Perhaps it is retribution for re-aggravating your old injury. Forgive me, friend.'

John sighed, 'It's fine.'

Now that his wings were out he felt no pain, but John shuddered to think about what would happen when he had to close them again. It felt awesome to feel the cool night breeze through his feathers though. He would leave them out a while before trying to pull them back in again.

'Iraq or Afghanistan?' the stranger asked quietly.

'Afghanistan,' John replied after a surprise pause, wondering how the man could tell he had done a tour. Were his tags showing?

Just then two or three paramedics approached them, and offered their assistance in prying their feathers apart.

John swallowed nervously but nodded his head.

'On three,' John announced, as he felt the play of muscles across the stranger's chest; readying themselves for the slow and tedious process. The doctor let out the breath he was holding, as the pain he expected didn't come. The stranger was moving so absurdly slow, he could feel nothing at all. John smiled at the man's kindness and raised his head to look behind them . The doctor then sighed in resignation, when he noticed all the people around them, ogling freely at his wings.

'The're staring at me, you know,' the other man lied, 'I've just been informed that my face can now give Medusa a run for her money.'

John snorted softly at his little joke.

Interested and curious now, the ex-army doctor looked up, trying to get a better view of the stranger. He was young, maybe around thirty; good looking in that way the ladies preferred, but that fact was a bit marred as his face was starting to swell from his injuries. The man would have some spectacular bruises in the morning. 'You look like a fright.'

'And that would make the fourth person who has told me that,' he remarked, trying to smile but wincing as some abused facial muscles protested. 'Although I put more stock in your observations, being a medical man and all.'

Surprised again, John started. 'Do I know you, sir?!'

'I am Sherlock Holmes,' the man said as he closed his eyes, 'Good. Now you know me. I am most pleased.'

'Errr...right, well I am Watson.. John,' he replied flummoxed at the way the man seemed to know so much about him. Sherlock only hummed in reply, and they fell in a sort of comfortable silence as Sherlock rested.

Soon one of the wings came apart and with a small groan of pleasure, Sherlock stretched out the limb leisurely, causing John to stare in jealously. It was a long time since he was close to another winged person, and for good reason. Why would he want to be reminded of a life that he no longer could be part of?

'Your feathers are beautiful,' John said in awe, as he stared sadly in fascination at the play of the light over the dark color. Sherlock's wings had a healthy sheen to them, and the black was interspersed with blue, red and gold highlights, as they moved in the light.

Contemplatively, Sherlock observed how the other man stared longingly at his wing, and he drew it back, 'Would you be so kind?'

For a moment John hesitated, before he reached out one hand, and began re-aligning the feathers that were out of place. It was quite similar to combing an untidy person's hair and unconsciously, John began to smile as the familiarity of the activity lulled him into a peaceful state.

His one wing that had been freed from Sherlock's, now unfurled completely for the first time in months, raising high in the air, over him.

If John was aware that every single person in the vicinity, winged or not, had stopped what they were doing to gawk at him, he wasn't showing it. Sherlock tried not to stare along with the rest of the morons, but it was a bit impossible as he had the proverbial best seat in the house.

'John, the first time I saw your wings...' Sherlock began after he had forcibly cleared his throat, 'I thought it was the angel of death come to reap my black heart.'

John glanced up with a small smile, remembering all those times in Afghanistan when he had done just that. 'I get that a lot. Sorry, if I scared you. Sherlock, everyone is staring at me, but there's one man staring at you from the crowd. Should I tell someone?'

Sherlock swore softly under his breath, even as he was quite impressed by the doctor's observational skills, 'Does he have an umbrella?'

'Yes.'

'Ignore him and have nothing to do with him in the future!' he commanded in a querulous and unreasonable tone. 'He is exceedingly poor company to keep, and likewise this sorry specimen who is approaching us now.'

John looked up again, as someone who looked like an investigator approached with a clip board.'Dr. Watson, is it? Were you involved in the altercation? I see that you are injured.'

'Anderson, can't you see it is an old injury?' Sherlock spat out in annoyance, 'Oh my God, where did you get your degree?! In a box of oatmeal?! Look, my head is aching something terrible, just...go over there and find something useful to do! Send Lestrade to me as soon as he gets here.'

'Just a minute!' the man called Anderson protested, only to be cut off as Sherlock rudely snapped up his one wing around them, blocking the investigator from his sight.

'As you can see John, I am surrounding by imbeciles,' he grumbled conversationally, 'as if I wasn't in enough pain from my injuries.'

Sherlock ruffled his feathers slightly in annoyance, before curling the wing to gently brush the tip over John's hands, 'if you are not too tired, please, do continue. You have a deft touch.'


	3. Marvelous awe

**Anote**\- Congratulations to Benedict and Martin on their respective Emmy awards for the show Sherlock! The awards just make it official that their acting 'chemistry' is the best there is on television! Woo-hoo!

As regards this story, I am surprised by all the interest, so I will keep going. Guess you all are just as fascinated as I am by the concept. Warning: the chapters will be short and a bit unpolished, as I am writing this waiting in grocery lines and in the lunch room, so I apologise in advance.

Chapter 3- **Marvelous awe**

When a specially modified ambulance pulled up with a police escort, John began to suspect Sherlock was someone important.

Ambulances for the winged were usually larger than most, but even regular ambulances were designed to open to accommodate their kind, even with their wings fully extended.

However, by the time they moved a sleeping Sherlock inside, John was glad that the vehicle had come. Even when he stretched his wings to the fullest, John couldn't touch the sides of the steel interior, but they had been forced to gently curl Sherlock's wings to get all of him to fit.

It was wall to wall black feathers, to put it mildly.

John was amazed at Sherlock's wingspan, and concluded that the man must be a powerful flier. A vague nebulous idea began to form in his mind as the paramedics secured their charge; an idea that Sherlock would be strong enough to take someone in flight with him if he wanted to.

The doctor brushed the fanciful thought aside as the paramedics made room for him, and soon they were off to hospital.

Another reason the small man was glad for the larger ambulance, was because it could close completely. He didn't want to imagine how the travelling public of London would react, if they saw a pair of snowy wings protruding from the top of an open air ambulance, as it sped along with all of its lights blazing.

The Angel of mercy or death (depending on your preference) persona that his wings typically invoked, might be enough to cause numerous fender benders. He had already had his fill of excitement for one evening, thank you very much.

At the moment though, John frowned as he concentrated on the man lying on the stretcher. Had he looked like that when he had been shot? Bruised, battered, with his wings limp and puddled around and about him in a pathetic heap?

With some effort John shook free of the terrible memory, and with a determined stride he moved forward to scoop up Sherlock's feathers in his arms; gently forcing a space for himself to kneel at the man's side.

This technique didn't work for everyone, because few people really had the patience or the knack for it, but John wanted to try. It was too much to see Sherlock like this; a helpless and vulnerable mess on a lonely plank of metal. Bending low over the injured man, John placed one hand on his dark curly hair and began to speak softly into his ear.

Curiously, the paramedics eagerly peeped over his shoulder. Long minutes passed and just as John was thinking that this wasn't going to work, he heard it.

The real trick was the delivery, not the content, and when Sherlock asked him later, John admitted that in actuality, he was summarizing the last episode of Top Gear he had seen just that morning. The key was a calm cadence because Sherlock, soothed by the sound of his voice, began re-aligning his feathers one at a time even though he was still dead to the world. In a matter of moments, Sherlock's dark wings brushed softly against John's arms and chest as they closed fully and neatly tucked up at his back.

A loud enthusiastic burst of applause came from the admiring paramedics, but John was nonplussed at this. He hadn't done anything that they couldn't do.

On a day to day basis, John did his best to tune out such grandiose praise, because from his experiences in the world, if he only hiccuped, he would be greeted with the same thunderous response.

This was part of the reason he stayed in his room in the hostel all day long.

You had to be in a certain mental state, to be able to properly process the type of movie star adoration he got from his unusually colored wings. In any case, he was just happy now that Sherlock's wings were again closed and out of potential danger. As with all things, sometimes it was the most powerful parts of a person that could be the easiest to damage. He would be in a position to know.

Within ten minutes they were at the hospital.

John of course hopped out to help, but then to his huge surprise, he found himself being gently encouraged along into the treatment room.

He shouldn't be in here and he knew it.

He had no privileges at this hospital and was distinctly out of place, as the gowned, capped and gloved medical staff danced around like a swarm of light blue butterflies in sterile jackets. John could also tell, that he was distracting everyone with his wings even though he had lowered them as best as he could. After a while of this, he tried to edge along the wall to escape into a waiting room. However, when one of the orderlies made way to tie down Sherlock's wings, John Watson found himself blindly running forward with a loud shout.

The room fell back with a gasp of surprise at the sudden change in the compelling stranger who, though dressed in such shabby clothes, was arrayed in feathery finery that gave him a royal bearing. Gentle, shy and humble, he had first seemed but not now. Now the man was cold and stern; hard eyes boring into each of their faces; daring them to approach and in turn reap the consequences of that decision.

Yes, they all stared mesmerized as his white wings unfolded high and wide over their sleeping patient, but at this particular moment, the stirring sight incited feelings more along the lines of nervous fascination, rather than marvelous awe.


	4. Alone

Chapter 4- **Alone**

John knew he was being unreasonable, so he really didn't need an orderly to tell him that.

Yes, he could acknowledge in his head, that it was probably a good idea to immobilize Sherlock's wings against his body. The injured man could suddenly wake up startled by some noise or pain, throw out his enormous appendages and bash some heads together, not to mention smash all the delicate instruments in the room, before he realized where he was.

It was just so...

_wrong?_

_humiliating?_

_disgusting?_

John breathed in deeply, realising he was projecting his own fears and insecurities on the situation in front of him.

He had been working through an army appointed therapist for a while to get a handle on his injury. Sometimes it seemed to be working; other times he just couldn't be bothered to get out of bed.

With some effort, the ex-army doctor lowered his wings from its attack posture, and shuffled around to stand at Sherlock's head. As a comprise, John suggested that he would keep a firm hold of Sherlock's shoulder to restrain him if needed, while the rest of them finished their tasks.

Of course, the nurses refused.

With a bright blush of mortification, John then fluffed up his feathers and smiled coyly to one and all.

At that moment, John wanted nothing more than to die of embarrassment, but he didn't know what else to do, and this had worked in the past; both on men and women. Sure enough, Sherlock's restraints were whisked out of sight, as John allowed some of the staff to come closer and touch his wings.

John forced himself not to shudder too visibly at the rapturous exclamations of 'y_ou're so beautiful! It's so soft! Can I have a feather?'_

It wasn't painful as much as it was invasive and humiliating. Would you let a prefect stranger walk up to you, and gently stroke your hair?

John closed his eyes with a sigh. Cheese on toast, this was bloody uncomfortable!

Sherlock owed him at least a dinner for this. Something nice, where there were waiters and menus, and a bloke with a guitar and keyboard in the corner.

Thankfully, they were soon done and Sherlock, exhausted from the pain of his attack, had mercifully slumbered on through all the x-rays.

However, as they were wheeling Sherlock into a recovery room, John was scratching his head, wondering why all these tests were necessary. Did Sherlock have some sort of medical condition that could be a complication?

He snuck a quick peek at the man's chart when no one was looking, and was relieved that the numbers all seemed fine.

Walking along the busy corridors, John thought that it was right odd how close he felt to the stranger at his side. Perhaps he was turning into a recluse, without realizing it. Perhaps he should really make an effort to try to interact more with the other vets, when there were activities at the hostel. Just as he was considering how deeply depressing that might be, John stopped with a start, when a pretty young lady ushered them all into Sherlock's room, and asked him if he wanted something to eat.

The small man gawked at the sheer opulence of his surroundings! He didn't even know that such recovery suites existed. Perhaps, it was converted in the eventuality that one of the royals or dignitaries needed to be cared for.

As Sherlock was wheeled into place and connected to the monitors, John walked around the richly appointed facilities; trying not to look like a clueless tourist.

The room was designed like a huge apartment studio; complete with its own five piece luxury wash room, huge plasma HD television, comfortable looking leather chairs, a well stocked fridge and a welcome basket of gourmet snacks. There was even a wide balcony with a garden of flowers and bistro set; perfect for if any winged visitors wanted to drop by.

Sherlock was either definitely someone important or rich. Most likely both John mused, as one of the orderlies hung up Sherlock's damaged suit and scarf on a hook in the closet, and lined up his designer shoes at the side of the bed.

In the end, John accepted a beer from the hostess and sat in a corner; deciding to wait for Sherlock's family to arrive.

She had been disappointed by this, and he had to promise faithfully that he would press her call buzzer if he changed his mind about dinner. The idea made John squirm a bit. He didn't know Sherlock that well, and didn't want to trespass on the man's hospitality. And besides, John was getting the distinct impression that most everyone was walking away with the notion that he and Sherlock were a lot 'closer' than just acquaintances. He had seen the way the paramedics had looked at each other, and exchange knowing grins.

As the woman walked out the room, Sherlock's policeman friend walked in to take his statement and necessary particulars.

When he was leaving, Inspector Lestrade had shook his head over Sherlock's battered body in annoyance, even as he gently patted his shoulder in a fatherly sort of way. According to the grizzled Scotland yard detective, Sherlock was a handful and it had been just a matter of time before this happened. With a sigh, the older man walked away, promising to keep them informed.

After another half hour had passed as John waited, he took a fresh beer from the fridge just to have something to do with his hands. About an hour later, John helped himself to some crisps from the welcome basket, and turned on the telly.

The laugh track from the late night show, jolted John to full awareness, and with a soft cry of alarm he looked at his watch.

He was astounded that three hours had passed and no one had come!

Concerned and distressed by this turn of events, John walked over to Sherlock's bed and looked down at the man lying there. The bruises on his face were starting to blossom in earnest now, and to put it mildly, he looked like a side of hamburger meat.

Gently, he pulled up Sherlock's expensive Egyptian cotton sheets to cover his bare, bruised shoulders.

'Don't you have anyone?' he whispered quietly.

Of course Sherlock didn't reply, but the evidence was quite clear. Even though Sherlock was young, rich and good looking; there was no one in London who cared to come sit with him.

'Alone, just like me,' John murmured sadly.


	5. Super hot girlfriend

**Anote:** I was on holiday today, and I decided to spend it with John and Sherlock. School and work tomorrow, so no more posts for a while (frown).

Chapter 5- **Super hot ****girlfriend**

John fought a losing battle not to sigh. He couldn't believe they were back here again, with their wings locked together.

Was this perhaps going to be a daily feature of their relationship? They would never shake the stigma of being a couple at this rate.

'Can you reach the button for the nurse?' John asked calmly. 'I think we need another pair of hands.'

'Why? Are you in some hurry to leave?!' Sherlock responded in a sharp voice.'Judging from the rumpled state of your clothes, it is clear you spent the night here. A few moments longer shouldn't matter.'

John raised a quizzically eyebrow at this uncalled for hostility, but perhaps it was just Sherlock's way of relieving stress.

'Don't feel so good,' the young man mumbled fretfully, as if in reply to John's unspoken thoughts.

Quickly, John depressed the red button to release more pain medication into the man's IV line, which is what caused them to become tangled up again in the first place.

The small doctor had been just on the balcony, having a nice cup of tea and enjoying the sharp stiff cold breeze of the dawn, flowing through his feathers, when he heard the rustle of bed sheets. Elated that Sherlock was finally awake, he had quickly entered and hurried over, completely startling Sherlock who had clearly thought he had been alone.

'I agree, a few moments shouldn't hurt,' John remarked calmly, as he sat on the edge of Sherlock's bed to better relieve the awkward angle of their wings being tangled. 'Not like I can go anywhere, really. Look, I'm sorry that I startled you. Again.'

Sherlock gave him an odd penetrating look. 'Yes. You do seem to do things that take me by surprise. Which is quite...odd. Very odd.'

'Odd?' John repeated defensively, 'How do you mean?'

'Odd...as in people rarely surprise me,' Sherlock clarified, as he tried to raise his head slightly; moaning softly at the effort it took. 'John?'

'I'm here.'

'I hurt everywhere!' he whined piteously, 'even my eyelashes hurt.'

'I know,' John tutted companionably, repressing the desire to snort loudly at Sherlock's martyred expression. 'Let me see how I can get us apart, and I will fetch you some tea.'

'That would be lovely,' Sherlock murmured, as he let his head roll back on his pillow.'Quite lovely. Would you do that?'

'Well...if you are not phobic about germs,' John inquired hesitantly, 'you can have a sip of mine. It's really something special! That girl you have working here is amazing.'

Sherlock opened his eyes in surprise at the cup being held up to his lips, and without thinking he tentatively lifted his head, the same time John tilted his cup up.

Warm flavor rolled over his tongue, reviving him instantly. It wasn't good as coffee, but John was right. It was wonderful!

'More?' John asked softly.

Sherlock eyes widened slightly; his mind churning a millions mile a minute trying to deduce why John was doing this; why he was here, why he had stayed all night.

'Yes?' Sherlock answered unsurely.

John smiled down at him in bemusement as Sherlock suddenly tensed and tried to draw back, the moment he slipped his hand under the man's curly head.

'Easy, easy,' John murmured as he brought up the cup once more to Sherlock's lips, 'I know it hurts. I know. Don't fight me.'

As he dutiful sipped, Sherlock looked over the edge of the cup, directly up into the kind blue eyes of the friendly stranger.

'That's it,' John smiled, nodding encouragingly as his patient drank more of the strengthening liquid. 'You just swallow, I will do the rest.'

They soon fell into that silence that you got, when for just a moment you were comfortable being exactly where you were.

'Will Mrs. Watson blister your ears for not returning home last night?' Sherlock inquired conversationally, staring at a spot on the wall behind the man.

John grinned softly, inexplicably charmed by Sherlock's awkward social behavior.

'There isn't a Mrs Watson.'

Sherlock grunted and pretended to lose interest, as he took another mouthful.

'And no miniature Watsons, waiting for daddy to see them off to school?'

'No miniature Watsons,' John replied in an engaging, patient manner, that was very encouraging to Sherlock who was hopeless at making small talk.

Sherlock sighed softly, pleased that John had no important commitments that he would have to fly off to tend to.

Based on a few matters in John's appearance, he had already deduced that the man lived alone and was out of work for some reason, but Sherlock thought it best to check. He wasn't right_ all_ the time; hence the reason he was lying here with multiple and truly painful injuries.

John waggled his eyebrows in a friendly way, 'and what about you? Shouldn't your super hot girlfriend be here doing this for you?'

Sherlock frowned in confusion; wincing as his face protested this movement, 'Girlfriend? No, not really my area.'

The doctor drew back with a small frown of confusion.

_Wait...what? ...oh right...whoopsidaisy..._

John felt himself turn red a bit, 'Um... so... do you have err...a super hot boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way.'

'I know it's fine,' Sherlock replied quickly; giving him a hard, speculatively look.

Their comfortable cozy space evaporated as they stared at each; each wondering at this sudden verbal misstep.

John was just about to apologise and change the topic, when it was now his turn to wince as Sherlock forcibly pulled apart his wings from his. By the time he was done, John was panting quietly and had a white knuckled grip on one of the bed railings. Sherlock hadn't been at all rough, but it was not a process John wanted repeated anytime soon.

'Are you alright?' Sherlock blurted out in concern as he observed his good Samaritan's obvious signs of distress. ' I'm sorry, I didn't think. Do you need pain medicine? I have loads.'

John held up a finger indicating that he needed a minute.

When the small man finally recovered himself, it was to find that Sherlock had reached out and draped his black wings solicitously all around his legs and lower back; effectively holding him upright. John found his concern quite touching, considering Sherlock was the one who was all banged up and worse for wear.

'I'm alright,' John insisted as he gently patted the long slender wing bone across his lap, 'But let's not talk about that right now. You should get some rest.'

'I'm not tired!' Sherlock cried; an obvious lie judging from the haggard look on his face, 'we could...we could...do something! Talk or watch telly. Is there any cricket on? Just don't...'

Sherlock broke off in mid sentence with a stubborn put out look, and an angry rustle of his feathers,'it's fine. I suppose you have to go to work or something stupid like that.'

'Are you asking me to leave?'

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders indifferently, almost passing out in the process. 'Do whatever you want. It doesn't matter to me.'

The small man fell silent as he studied his shoes.

Sherlock tried not to stare like an idiot, as John's incredible wings unfolded and fluttered absently behind him. Maybe he could pretend to be interested, just so that John would want to stay with him a bit longer.

Yes, he could do that. Why not?

People fell into relationships for the stupidest reasons imaginable and besides, when John really got to know him better, he would quickly get over his obvious infatuation for his transport.

Excellent!

Sherlock congratulated himself for untangling that problem quite nicely, and just as he was about to open his mouth and say "_yes, you can be my super hot boyfriend if you want_," John turned to him.

'Sherlock, I wasn't asking you out,' he said with a firm look, 'that's not something I can offer. I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong idea, and if you would rather I go now, I'll leave.'

'Oh, really?,' the injured man replied in some skepticism; a bit distracted that John didn't seemed to be behaving in a predictable manner at all. 'Good. Thank you. Breakfast?'

John blushed as his stomach rumbled excitedly in reply.

'Breakfast would be good,' he mumbled, and the man pressed the buzzer for his serving attendant.

Sherlock hadn't asked him to leave, so that was good, wasn't it?

He really wanted to stay and do all those things the other man had suggested like talk, and watch cricket on the telly until their eyeballs fell out.

It would be almost like having a friend.

However, before John could get up and find a seat, the woman entered with a shaving set on a tray, and a neat set of clothes dangling from hangers off her arm. If she was surprised to see her employer practically wrapped around a stranger, she wasn't showing it in her face.

Sherlock inspected the items she bought, before nodding in approval.

'These are for you,' Sherlock had to explain, as John stared in embarrassed horror when the woman laid the items across his arms.

'Oh,' John stammered, not knowing what to say, 'Why?''

'Are we not having breakfast together?' Sherlock inquired tartly; giving John a light tap on the back of the head with the edge of his wing, as if to wake him up.

'Well, yes.'

'Then you must wash and dress,' he explained, wondering why John was giving him such a weird look. 'I'll order us something. Eggs, John?'


	6. A marvelous time

Flashback-_'Are we not having breakfast together?' Sherlock inquired tartly; giving John a light tap on the back of the head with the edge of his wing, as if to wake him up._

* * *

Chapter 6- **A marvelous time**

The woman hurried in with her arms filled with additional platters of food.

She was so very pleased that their intriguing visitor had finally taken an interest in eating something, and with such good appetite!

'Fanks' the small man mumbled inarticulately around a mouthful of eggs and ham, 'This is 'wesome. I wish I c'ud steal 'ou.'

She smiled and ducked her head; wondering if she wasn't blushing a bit.

The stranger's grateful and shy thanks, made him even more handsome than he already was; now that he had cleaned up and was wearing the fresh clothes she had ordered for him. The stranger's nice manners, seemed so out of place for someone who looked like he did. With his extraordinary wings, you would expect him to treat everyone as though they should lick his shoes.

Her thoughts were interrupted when the men groaned in tandem. The West Indies had scored another beautiful six.

'I take it the cricket match is not going well?' she asked conversationally; gesturing to the telly, which had been wheeled closer so Sherlock could also watch as they ate. (Well John ate, Sherlock just pretended by swirling a spoon in his bowl of beef broth).

The two young men sat side by side, looking like a pair of mismatched chess pieces as their wings fluttered in annoyance and concern for the cricket score.

'The West Indies are batting,' John informed her absently, without looking away from the replay.

'Gayle at the crease,' Sherlock then bit out, also totally absorbed by the match.

'Chasing sixty runs.'

'Three overs remaining!'

'Four wickets in hand!'

Everyone paused a bit, as they silently calculated the run rate that England would have to manage, in order to secure the victory.

At another time, the young woman would have shrugged at this typical male absorption with sports. The two cricket fans had absently finished each other sentences, with the typical fervor of those who followed the game, even in their sleep it seemed.

Curious, she glanced back at the two.

She didn't know Holmes the younger very well. Everyone said he was a borderline sociopath, and a terrible person really, but she didn't agree. He was a bit sharp at times but if someone like John (he had insisted she use his first name) favored his company, then he couldn't be all bad.

The attendant took a place in the corner, and under the cover of her book of Sudoku, she snuck quick peeks at John and his wings. However, as the next over began, the woman pressed her lips together in amusement, as the two men hooted, hollered, analysed and argued each subsequent ball that was bowled. In short, they were having a marvelous time.

John picked up the remote and with a happy smile switched off the telly, while Sherlock laughed evilly when the West Indies middle order collapsed, as per usual.

'As if there was any doubt!' Sherlock sniffed in amusement.

'Well at least they put up a fight,' John remarked kindly; nodding his thanks as his empty plates were efficiently whisked away by Sherlock's attentive server. 'Miss, don't forget you said you would get me the bill. For the new clothes, remember?'

Uncomfortably, she exchanged glances with Sherlock. It was hardly likely that John could afford to repay him for the new clothes, especially the ones she had selected. Sherlock waved her off.

'John, would you stop going on and on about your clothes!' the young man spat out, trying to distract him, 'you're being boring.'

But the ex-army captain climbed to his feet with a stubborn look, 'No, I want that bill. The only reason I accepted your offer was because I know I was beginning to smell rank.'

John eyed the way Sherlock's wings slowly unfolded high above his head; a clear sign that he wanted John back down.

After their small verbal fumble earlier, things seemed to have righted themselves as they ate and watched the television.

John had been relieved by this.

He found Sherlock quite intriguing, and was looking forward to hearing more about why he was helping Scotland Yard, among other things. Meeting Sherlock was one of the most exciting things that had happened in his life, in a long time!

So John wasn't scared exactly as the man's wings opened fully on either side of him, but he couldn't help but feel nervous.

Perhaps it was the menacing black, or just the man's gargantuan wingspan that hinted that one should not provoke this man, if given a choice. A part of John was quite certain through, that his new mate wouldn't harm a hair on his head, but there was a wildness about Sherlock that was evident in just the way he spoke.

'I pay my own way,' John said firmly but politely.

'FINE!' Sherlock shouted rudely, as he beat his wings down to vent his aggravated feelings, 'you can take it out of your bloody salary. Stop nagging me about the stupid bill!'

The ex-captain took a deliberate step back this time, as the powerful gust generated from Sherlock's wings slammed into him.

Better to be safe than sorry.

'Salary?' John repeated stupidly, when he ran their little exchange back over in his mind, 'Are you offering me a job?'

'Yes, yes!' Sherlock snapped impatiently,'Do try and keep up!

'Oh...okay. Thanks,' John said softly in some confusion at the sudden turn of events, 'I could use a job. Thanks again.'

The small man felt himself flush in embarrassment. Of course he was embarrassed! Even _he_ had figured out that he _literally_ couldn't afford the clothes on his back.

'But I am not the most reliable of people,' he felt he should warn the man. 'What is it that you require?'

'A little doctoring, what else?' Sherlock said more gently, pleased that the man had agreed so quickly, even though he had practically shouted the job offer at him. He was also a little ashamed that John seemed nervous all of a sudden. He didn't like that. He wanted John to continue carrying on the way he had been doing; as though he hadn't noticed what a freak of nature Sherlock was.

'Please, come closer,' Sherlock begged softly, as he slowly lowered his wings and tucked them away. 'I ...I wouldn't hurt you.'

Sherlock's whole face crinkled into a smile of genuine pleasure, when John smartly stepped up to his beside without any hesitance.

'And are you quite sure that your wings are alright?' the young man asked quickly as he pointed to them; trying to change the topic. 'I know you don't want to talk about it but I need to know something, so I can help you better in the future. I am not fully brushed up on wing anatomy.'

'My wings are fine,' John replied, ignoring the rest for the moment, 'But I should close them now, and I wouldn't mind some help.'

Sherlock nodded.

'John?' he prodded as the man hesitated unsurely. 'How can I help? Don't worry. If you pass out again, you are in an excellent place to get some help.'

John shuffled on his feet, trying to talk himself into coping with the pain to come. 'My specialists says it will not hurt too bad, if I close it one at a time.'

The small man didn't hold out much hope of this, but as Sherlock just pointed out, he was in a good place if he required medical help.

John turned around, 'would you?'

Their eyes met as the small man looked over shoulder.

Gently but firmly, Sherlock reached out and grasped one wing. Intrigued, he looked on eagerly as John took a deep breath and then retracted his free wing. Sherlock had never seen anyone do that before and rightly so, as the other wing tensed with such force that he almost lost his grip.

'John?'

'I am fine...wow! It stung but ...I'm alright. I can't believe that worked,' John murmured in astonishment. ' I kid you not, I really thought this was going to be a repeat of what went on in that alley when I first found you. Hang on.'

Sherlock was taken by surprise now as John began to refold his other wing, which pulled him forward; almost dumping him off the edge of the bed. Hastily Sherlock aligned the feathers as they folded in, so they would fit neatly together.

John whirled around with a look of stunned amazement. 'Oh my God. I am alright. Thank you, Sherlock!'

Sherlock fell back onto his pillow with a sharp gasp. He didn't mind helping his new nurse/doctor, but that maneuver had sapped him of all his remaining energy.

John immediately picked up the bowl of broth.

'What are you doing?!' the other man asked sharply in alarm.

'Oh ...I thought ...I thought you were hiring me to oversee your recovery.'

'I am ...but with x-rays and all of that!'

'Sherlock, this bowl of soup is part of all of that,' he quietly explained. Ineffectually, the ex-army doctor then tried to push the spoon between the man's closed lips.

John raised one eyebrow in disbelief, realizing now that Sherlock was going to be one of _those_ patients.

'Well, this is a sight!' an unfamiliar voice suddenly drawled from the doorway, 'fancy seeing you again, Dr. Watson. How fortunate, that we all here gathered.'

Sherlock looked up and groaned, covering his battered face with a soft pillow.

'Hello, Mycroft. Come to finish me off, have you?'


	7. The simple life

Anote: Warning, a little swearing in this chapter.

Chapter 7- **The simple life**

'Should we call security?' John muttered from the corner of his mouth, recognising the disconcerting stranger from the alley, even without his black umbrella.

Sherlock huffed loudly in exasperation, _wishing_ that his life could be so simple. 'No. That's fine. John, you can have a chair. This may take awhile or if you want, do have a brisk walk.'

_Leave?_

It was a given that in a one on one encounter, a non winged person, like their unwelcome visitor, was no match for a winged adversary, but Sherlock's injuries put him at a distinct disadvantage.

John's eyes cut to the group of chairs, which were unfortunately grouped in a way that meant he would have to give up his position, in between Sherlock and the well dressed man.

Finally, he glanced over at Sherlock himself. He looked calm; his wings down and in, and the expression on his face was one more of constipated irritation than anxiety, but still...

'I am fine standing here, if that's alright?' John decided, as he spread his legs apart and folded his hands behind him; settling into a military stance without realizing it.

After a moment of profound astonishment, Sherlock's lips curled up in a slow smile at the belligerent look on John's face. It would appear that his good Samaritan was also willing to add 'body guarding' to his list of doctoring duties.

Sherlock was of course confused that John, whom he only knew for a handful of hours, had taken such an apparent liking to him so quickly.

It was bloody odd.

Stuff like this never happened him.

People talked to Sherlock and then usually walked off in the next direction, as quickly as they could. He found John's stubborn loyalty deeply endearing, in what he acknowledged was an appalling amount of sentiment on his part.

'Thank you,' Sherlock said softly to the back of John's head; judging that this was an appropriate thing to say.

'I find this hard to believe,' Mycroft however remarked, as he absently slapped the I-pad he was carrying against his leg, 'in that you appear to have gotten over your trust issues quite quickly, Dr. Watson.'

John started in surprise and colored a deep plum, as the man had unexpectedly repeated the exact words that he and his therapist had "discussed" just yesterday morning.

How could he know this?

'What the fuck?!' he shouted, feeling the strong desire to pelt the steaming cup of soup in the man's face, 'Who the hell are you?!'

For some reason, this obscene response made Sherlock snigger appreciatively in the background.

When _he_ had deduced John earlier, he had gotten a gentle 'Do I know you, sir?' while Mycroft got a 'What the fuck?!'

It was enough to make Sherlock sing a happy tune.

'I find it amusing, that not only can you piss me off, Mycroft,' Sherlock chuckled sarcastically, 'but that you can royally rile up people who don't even know you. And you say you have no talent.'

The older man tilted his head with a sneering smile, 'But if I can "piss you off" as you so succinctly put it, doesn't that mean that despite all your protestations to the contrary, that I _do_ have control over you? '

'Oh Lord,' John murmured under his breath, not even having to turn around to gauge Sherlock's reaction to that.

The small doctor winced when instruments suddenly overturned and broke, as Sherlock's powerful wings snapped open aggressively with a loud swat; generating a perfect tornado in the small room as they beat together. With an exasperated sigh, the ex-army captain turned around and timing Sherlock's rhythm, he quickly ducked under one giant black wing, as it swooped up in a graceful arc.

Later on he would consider how stupid that was. If had misjudged, Sherlock could have tossed him clear across the room and knocked him senseless.

'Sherlock, stop this!' John hissed in a commanding voice; pressing down hard on Sherlock's pectoral to get his attention, 'Your ribs are in no state to be using your wings like this. Don't let him take control. Sherlock, LOOK AT ME!'

His patient turned his eyes to him; dark, black, roiling with anger.

'Sherlock, don't let him get to you so,' he murmured again soothingly, 'I don't want you to get hurt. He's not worth that.'

It took some effort but John hung on grimly, determined not to let his patient re-injure himself. The only way Sherlock was getting out of this bed, was to take him too.

It had all seemed like a good idea at first, the only feasible one really; but then John began to feel the density of the air change around him in a familiar way. He swallowed hard, as a sudden panic welled up in him.

'Sherlock?' he murmured anxiously, as he felt himself being pulled on to his toes, 'now maybe is not a good time for this, my friend.'

It was true that winged people sometimes took others with them in flight, but it was a tricky sort of business; similar to trying to swim with someone who was drowning. As one of John's medical colleagues put it during their internship, the only way he was flying with someone, is if he knocked them unconscious first.

John didn't care about all this though, he just knew that he wasn't ready to be in the air again under _any_ circumstance.

'Sherlock, please!' he begged in a muffled whisper as he clutched at the bed rail. Sherlock was much too strong for this to have any effect, but John's almost inaudible cry had penetrated his anger fogged mind, in a way that nothing so far had.

Gently, Sherlock put out one hand to anchor himself to John's side and with a deep shuddering breath, he struggled to pull himself together.

A sudden silence filled the room when Sherlock's wings stilled abruptly.

As John found his feet, Sherlock's eyes darted all around him, observing the destruction he had caused.

'Well that was ...unexpected,' John remarked lamely.

'Quite,' Sherlock agreed in an apologetic manner; feeling ashamed and embarrassed that once again, he had done something to upset his rescuer.

John had been decent to him in a way no one had been in a long time, and all he did was scare and intimidate the other man in return. It was if some part of him was trying to push John away; although he very much wanted the opposite.

'Are you calm?' John whispered, as he caught the man's gaze.

A quiet nod came from the bed. 'Yes.'

'Any sharp pains in your chest?'

'No.'

'Do you want me to punch Mycroft in the head now?'

'No, not at this exact moment.'

It was John who started giggling first and soon Sherlock joined in; holding his side as his abused body protested all this extra exercise.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, as these antics continued with so sign of stopping, 'should I expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?'

'Christ,' John groaned softly, when he walked off to collect to a dustpan and broom. Couldn't two blokes enjoy each other's company, without having all this suspicion being excited?

As their visitor switched on his I-pad to finally explain the reason for his visit, John eavesdropped quite unabashedly; snickering to himself when Mycroft hopped out his way to avoid getting his highly polished shoes scuffed by John's vigorous sweeping.

_Consulting detective?_

John's ears perked up eagerly.

_Wow, he solves crimes! How exciting!_

He peeked across at Sherlock with new admiration.

_Holy chocolate stars! Chinese smugglers, right here in London?!_

Then, John almost dropped the pile of broken glass, when Sherlock unexpectedly called the man his brother.

With a rueful smile the small doctor shook his head, as he realized that the earlier conversation made sense now.

It was quite evident that the two men had perfected a delicate balance of moderation, and being complete dicks to each other, which John knew from unfortunate personal experience, was something that many siblings did.


	8. Others

**Anote**: I know my Sherlock is a bit sappy. It's just a preference I have, where it is only John who can really effect any change in his manner. And to answer a PM I got, no, Mycroft doesn't have wings.

Chapter-**The Others**

Generally speaking, a good smuggler usually had an area of speciality; whether it was Japanese car parts, mobile phones, codeine, ladies underpants or in this case, Chinese antiquities. But that wasn't to say that a smuggler, wouldn't add a little extra to their contraband shipments, especially if it was small, light and literally worth its weight in gold.

Sherlock stared in disbelief; clutching at the I-pad so hard that Mycroft thought he could hear the casing begin to crack.

'Now you know why I always warn you about sentiment,' his brother muttered softly.

The older man had to duck fast, as Sherlock's left wing did its very best to slice off his head.

'Sherlock, stop that at once!' John shouted in exasperation, 'we are not doing this again! Can't you two behave for five minutes?! Your mother must have been a saint.'

Sherlock blinked and Mycroft frowned, as they turned to face John; both men wondering where the quiet solider had gone and wandered off to.

'Sooooo...' John rocked forward excitedly on his toes, tapping his broom impatiently and just generally dying to get a peek at the Chinese smugglers that he assumed Sherlock was looking at, 'anything interesting there?'

Mycroft was pleased that Sherlock handed over the pad quickly, and that there was no disgusting scene of sentiment, as to if they should involve John in anything dangerous. Sherlock obviously liked this doctor fellow but thankfully, he wasn't _that_ far gone.

'What am I looking at?' John asked, his excitement turning to confusion as he scrolled through several photos of Sherlock, out and about in the streets of London.

It was Mycroft who obligingly pointed out the white smudge in the corner, and the small doctor choked back a cry.

'You've been following me?!' John bellowed in an accusing voice, as he strode right up to the bed. 'Why? What the hell is going on?!'

Sherlock didn't look away as John's anger and suspicion broke over him, but inside his innards crawl uncomfortably.

_'Freak!' _John's narrowed blue eyes seemed to scream down at him, and Sherlock could almost taste the dirty, hateful word hanging in the air between them.

Strange.

He thought John would be different.

No matter.

It was better this way.

Of course it was.

Sherlock refocused on the present; pushing to one side the particularly pleasant memory of how John had laughed loudly at several of his jokes.

The doctor was now a means to an end.

Potential smuggler 'bait' so to speak.

Mycroft's eyes cut to his brother, as Sherlock's wings dipped down and around him in a subdued fashion.

'I was following the smugglers, John,' he finally explained in a cold voice, 'and I _failed_ to observe that they were following you.'

'Sweet God, almighty' John muttered as he sat down on the edge of Sherlock's bed, when his suddenly wobbly legs gave away.

He stared down at each photograph with fresh eyes, now recognizing the blur of himself in almost every photo.

He was so focused on the device that it took John a while to notice that in the meantime, Sherlock had hesitantly curled one of his large wings across his shoulders and around to his chest, in concern. The doctor welcomed the extra warmth though, because he felt terribly cold.

Sherlock stiffened in considerable surprise, when the doctor suddenly clapped his palm over his heart, which effectively trapped Sherlock's wing in place over the man's shoulder. It was quite similar to making sure your blanket didn't fall off your shoulders.

Gently, Sherlock tried to pull his wing away, but it had no affect. John only tightened his grip.

'Dr. Watson...John, has anyone?', Mycroft began in a soft voice, as he poured the distraught man a glass of water.

'Has anyone approached me recently, wishing to buy something?' John interrupted Mycroft's questioning in a bitter, embarrassed voice. 'I think you know the answer to that. Some bloke...a trader I think, offered me five hundred pounds if I would sell one of my feathers.'

'What did he look like?! Sherlock and Mycroft yelled together, swept away in the excitement of the chase. Quickly, John fished the banker's card out of his tattered wallet and handed it over.

John had of course flatly refused the man's request.

People didn't go around selling their feathers! Sure they would grow back eventually, maybe in a year or two, but still!

The very idea had made John feel sick all over, and he shivered anew recalling the upsetting memory. Unconsciously, he turned into Sherlock's wing, seeking the warm, comforting presence of a human being that was friendly to him.

It was true that John didn't have a lot of money, but he wasn't that far gone to have to resort to selling bits of himself, like some strung out whore on a street corner.

But...

He groaned as he closed his eyes and massaged the tension in his neck with one hand.

Just that morning he was thinking about the money again. Five hundred pounds wasn't something to sneeze at!

He could pay off his rent for three months, buy a warm coat for the winter coming and still have some left over to pack his small fridge with real food; something that you didn't have to stick in the microwave or eat out of a Styrofoam box.

It was not like he was actually using his wings at the moment.

And just to slather the icing on the proverbial cake, his refusal had lead to a chain of events which resulted in Sherlock being beaten into a pulp.

John smiled sadly as Sherlock's feathers rustled anxiously across his back, as if in sympathy with his troubled state of mind. 'I am sorry I shouted at you, my friend; bit startled at this one.'

Sherlock grunted absently, feeling an odd happy lurch in his stomach, as a heavy weight was abruptly lifted off his chest.

'And I am thinking,' John continued in a small voice of shame, 'that if I only had swallowed my _massive_ pride, and just said yes the first time, you wouldn't be in this bed now. I'm sorry, can't even begin to cover it.'

There was pain in the doctor's eyes as John carefully looked over Sherlock's battered body, as though each colorful painful bruise was somehow his stupid fault.

The brothers exchanged quick glances.

It was unclear if John quite grasped the full implications of what was going on.

Smugglers were 'lusting' after the small doctor, and not the tame sort, who traded in knock off designer handbags out of the back of a car!

'And you don't have to pay me, Sherlock' John offered, 'I'll take care of you for free. I owe you.'

Mycroft snorted and shot his brother a look of incredulity. 'He offered to pay you?'

'John, stop being silly! First off, I don't accept your apology,' Sherlock sniffed, to which John naturally jerked back in surprise and hurt, 'because consider if all of this hadn't occurred, you would have missed out on this opportunity to meet me.'

John smiled wryly, as he patted the tip of Sherlock's black wing that was still pressed against his chest, 'indeed, I hadn't thought about that. That would have been unfortunate.'

'Quite!' Sherlock agreed with a pleased nod; completely missing the teasing glint in John's eyes. Sherlock's wings came up so suddenly now with his happy change in mood, that Mycroft had to again hop out of the way, to avoid being knocked unconscious.

'And second, I feel privileged to have _your_ medical assistance,' Sherlock growled defiantly; glaring in his brother's direction, 'no matter what the rest of the asinine population in England thinks!'

Mycroft raised a dubious eyebrow, wondering again at this rather odd change he saw in his brother.

John inwardly rolled his eyes, determined to stay out of this "thing" with Sherlock and Mycroft, 'Thanks. All of that was sort of...sweet, in a truly strange way.

'John, you've been calling me friend... a lot,' Sherlock suddenly blurted out, unable to contain himself any longer, 'is that ...what I mean is...what do you mean by doing that?'

Sherlock glared at Mycroft again, wishing he would just go away!

Now he regretted saying anything at all, because he really didn't need an audience for if John laughed in his face.

However, the doctor shook his head distractedly as he rose to his feet, 'Sherlock, I can't talk about this right now. Later, I promise. I should go to the police. I've got to warn the others.'

'Others?' Mycroft said sharply. 'What others?'

'Others!' John repeated worriedly, 'with wings like me. These are smugglers, right? Who's to say they would stop at taking just one feather? If they took too much at one time, it will cause trauma; people could die...I could die.'

Mycroft nodded approvingly.

John had grasped the situation with a calmness and clarity that was perhaps not surprising in a former army captain. There was apparently much that was hidden beneath those god awful horrible jumpers Watson wore.

'Do you have contact information for them?'

'We have a Facebook page.'

'Is it public?'

'Of course not!'

'Password, please.'

A warm feeling flooded Sherlock's chest when John turned around to look right at him, silently asking him what to do; trusting _him_ to be the one to help.

Carefully, Sherlock filed away the unexpected "look" in his memory palace for further examination.


	9. Houses with turrets

**Anote**: so swamped by work stuff that you get only a short filler scene today. Please be aware that although I have used many elements from the series, I will throw in a few things of my own; as you can see in this chapter. Hope that clears up any confusion.

Chapter 9- **Houses with ****turrets**

John groaned, as he leaned forward to rest his head on the steering wheel of the ambulance.

The trap for their entrepreneurial smugglers was set for the Holmes' house in the country, and while the doctor expected something pretty grand, he was not expecting anything like this.

John was fairly certain that houses with turrets, were actually _not_ called houses at all.

The ex-army captain raised his head, ogled at the magnificent stone building and its expansive grounds for a few minutes, before mentally shrugging in acceptance. The place was secluded, and that was all that was important for the plan that had been set in motion.

The doctor got out and stretched his tired muscles; feeling the play of his favourite revolver at the small of his back, as he vigilantly scanned his surroundings.

All was quiet and still as the evening sun began to set.

Approvingly, he glanced at the thick forest that surrounded them. The plentiful greenery would prove to be excellent cover for Lestrade's men to keep them under surveillance and for them to hide in too, if the plan turned out to be a cock up.

As he stared up at the bright orange sky, John had to reflect on how rapidly events had swirled about him.

After months of inactivity where he eeked out an existence in mind numbing mediocrity, now, both his coat pockets were bulging with thick wads of cash (for emergencies, Sherlock insisted when he stared in amazement); he was using his medical skills again, and to top it all off, his offer to assist in netting these dangerous criminals had been accepted, with thanks.

Sometimes change was gradual, but other times it was like a speeding locomotive.

However, John grimaced as he opened the back doors to the one troublesome wrinkle that he wasn't too sure about.

Sherlock.

Exhausted from the drive and his still healing injures, the detective was out like the proverbial light.

Mycroft had cooked up a somewhat true story, about Sherlock being a man of some means, who, grateful to his rescuer for his assistance, had hired the down on his luck ex-army doctor to care for him in his family's country residence, where he lived alone.

With John's relative poverty and white wings contrasted against Sherlock's dark, brooding appearance and wealth, the 'romantic' story of the mismatched pair, had spread through the hospital like wildfire. The resultant giggles and side ways looks of longing by the staff, were enough to even make Sherlock blush in embarrassment, which overall greatly comforted John, as he tried to hide his face in the pages of a large newspaper.

At least he wasn't suffering alone.

The doctor hoped after all this trouble they went through, that their very patient and methodical smugglers were alerted about the change in location.

John didn't mind being used as the bait, so to speak. He _wanted_ to have a crack at these 'hunters', who apparently worked for a number of wealthy art collectors in Europe and Asia.

If it had been something like wanting white feathers for some medicine or a ritual, John might have understood that, a folks were beyond superstitious and the desperate would resort to anything. But to just have his feathers as a trophy stuck to a wall...that was too nauseating and upsetting to even contemplate.

And he tried not to think about it, but he couldn't quite help it.

For a moment, he laid his forehead against the cold steel of the cab, and struggled to control his thoughts.

Mycroft had managed to get hold of everyone on John's Facebook page, except for two; Murray, an old campaigner back from World war 2, and Aya, a little girl. The patterns in the crimes hadn't been immediately apparent to anyone, because one occurred in Australia and the other in Germany.

The gang of criminals had gone after the old and the young first. It made sense they would come after the lame one now.

John's feathers puffed up in his agitation of mind.

As soon as he had a chance, he was going to get Sherlock to help him open them again. He felt much too vulnerable like this.

With another comprehensive look around them, John turned his back and activated the controls and switches that would lower Sherlock's stretcher to a more manageable height.

It was time to get the man behind the safety of the stone walls of his home.

Again, his medical training protested the very idea of having Sherlock exposed to danger. If they were surrounded or had to move quickly, the man might re-injure himself of worse! This was completely unacceptable of course, and he didn't know why he had allowed himself to agree to this.

Although John had promised himself that he would stay out of this thing with the two brothers, he had shouted at Mycroft when the government agent had first outlined the plan of attack. Mycroft had looked mortified while Sherlock had grinned gleefully behind his back, like a naughty little boy.

As a concession, Mycroft had them both implanted with trackers under the skin and John winced now as his jeans rubbed against the small wound, just on his hip.

Since it was impossible to gently roll the stretcher along the stone path, before long Sherlock woke up; immediately snapping his enormous wings open in case of danger. John smiled down at him briefly, before he concentrated on getting them safely to the door. 'Relax, we're here at your house.'

Sherlock looked up into John's red rimmed eyes.

On and off during their drive, he had thought he heard the small man sobbing softly.

Sherlock refolded his wings as they passed through the front door, 'Your white feathered colleagues may still be alive, John. My brother will find them. Depend on us.'

John rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, 'They are not colleagues, they are friends. Just as you are by the way, to answer your earlier question.'

'I believe you,' Sherlock remarked around a sleepy yawn, 'you're still here with me, are you not? I am very excited to be your friend. Thank you.'

'Right,' John said with a small snort of confusion, of course not understanding that the consulting detective didn't have friends.

The small doctor closed the door and locked it behind them.

As he wheeled Sherlock around, he looked about him curiously; awed by the many paintings and expensive furnishings. 'So how about giving me the 10 pence tour of the place? What's this room, the living room?'

'John?'

'Yes?'

'We're still in the hallway.'


	10. Waiting

**Anote**: a short domestic scene today, as I get my thoughts in order for the rest of the story. No action as yet but soon. I really need to get one of them up in the air, don't you think?

Chapter 10- **Waiting**

John leaned his shoulder against the floor to ceiling glass wall of Sherlock's room, and stared out at the light filled landscape outside.

After living for months in a tiny bedsit whose only window looked out at the ugly brick of another tall building, the panoramic view of the moonlight lawn, filled John's heart with amazement and wonder.

With a small sigh, he rested his forehead against the cool glass, finding it difficult to believe that this peaceful, silent scene could shatter in an instant.

The room they were sharing was more of a large attached sun-room than an actual bedroom, but it was an excellent choice for their mission, with its high visibility and flat green lawn on three sides. It was perfect for their would be kidnappers to observe John taking care of his injured patient, all alone and unprotected.

Would they come tonight and try to take him, or begin stalking him for a few days as they had done before?

John jumped in fright, as a loud noise came from behind him. Quickly, he glanced around to watch Sherlock snuffle loudly in his sleep.

This had been a recurring event for the last three hours or so.

Sherlock couldn't roll on his side because of his damaged ribs, and the resultant snores emanating from his slightly open mouth were enough to wake the dead.

John couldn't help himself as once again, he dissolved into a series of muffled giggles.

It wasn't really funny, but John's sides were aching now with suppressed laughter. It was one of those knee jerk reactions he supposed, like watching someone slip spectacularly on a banana peel. But John felt good to have a buddy with him, even one who was making such a god awful racket. It would be foolish in the extreme to think that his present situation was not dangerous.

In the meantime, Sherlock let out another gigantic snore, but this time it was loud enough to wake him. John was only surprised that it had taken so long.

Upon opening his eyes, the detective immediately threw opened his wings to their full length, which was another reason why John was standing way over on the other side of the room, out of harm's way. As the detective scanned his immediate surroundings for danger, the man's feathers made a sharp rustling sound as they twitched in tandem, first to the left and then to the right.

'John, get away from that window!' he yelped, 'what are you doing?! you are making yourself a target!'

The small man rolled his eyes as he pushed off the glass, 'Isn't that kind of the point?'

But Sherlock just frowned at this answer and beckoned him closer.

John crossed the space and handed the man a cup with a sippy straw so he could have some water, without needing to pull himself into a sitting position.

The long sleeve of his borrowed shirt cuff fell over his wrist in the process.

'Is that my shirt you are wearing?' Sherlock asked curiously, recognizing the familiar purple color that was his particular favourite.

John felt himself flush with mild embarrassment. 'Sorry about this. Your brother said he would collect my things and he brings my gun, my mug and my laptop and forgets everything else! What is that all about?! What a wanker!'

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he observed how John was crossing his arms tightly across his chest.

'John, didn't you announce just this evening that we are friends?'

'Yes,' he said unsurely, wondering where Sherlock was going with this.

'And friends borrow each other's stuff, not so?'

'On occasion, yes.'

It had't escaped Sherlock's notice that John had gone for what was his 'oldest' looking shirt. He wasn't going to mention now that it happened to be one of his favourites, as John appeared to be acutely self conscious about accepting favors, or admitting he needed help.

'Then if we examine this logically, it should be quite alright for you to borrow my stuff anytime you want to?'

'Well...I suppose that...'

Sherlock looked at him so expectantly, that it made John smile ruefully. The detective had a social awkwardness that at times was deeply endearing, and John couldn't remember the last time one of his male friends truly went out of their way to make him feel so at home.

As a result, John confidently walked over and rifled through the man's things and picked out a warm looking black sweater.

Even though it was a bit off putting to have Sherlock staring at him so happily as he pulled the garment over his head, it wasn't creepy. John found it more sad than anything, as it seemed to hint of a life as bitterly lonely as the one he lived, since returning battered and broken to England.

'Well that feels great. I am toasty warm now. Cheers,' John thanked him feelingly, 'Let me give you a check as you are awake, Sherlock.'

Obediently, the consulting detective unbuttoned his shirt while the doctor considerately warmed up his stethoscope between his hands. 'Take a deep breath.'

When he had finished listening to his lungs, John nodded his head in satisfaction, 'sounds good.'

A quick check of his eyes and reflexes followed. 'Any pain?'

'Not more since last time you asked,' Sherlock muttered impatiently, 'what time is it? Has Lestrade checked in?'

John moved his fingers gingerly over the man's tightly bandaged torso.

'It's about two in the morning, and there's nothing to report. It's quieter than a cemetery out there ' he finally remarked, drawing Sherlock's shirt closed and obligingly doing up the buttons, 'Do you want a shave?'

'What?' Sherlock asked in bemusement, wondering if this was some new way of changing the topic that he didn't know about.

The small man pointed at Sherlock's jaw. 'When I first met you, you were clean shaven. Do you want a shave?'

'At two in the morning?'

John gave him a wry smile, 'It will keep my mind busy.'

Absently Sherlock's wings scraped softly against the wall, as the detective studied the small man at his side, wondering if John, who seemed to be so cool and calm, was starting to crack under the pressure. 'Have you ever done this before?'

John was about to cheekily respond that he did so every morning, but he knew what he was being asked. 'Yes, Sherlock. I have done this for my army mates many times and, would you believe, at two in the morning.'

Sherlock laughed and then winced as his ribs protested this sudden movement. 'Fine, I accept your thoughtful offer.'

John really wondered if it was fine, when Sherlock pierced him with an intense wild eyed stare, as he readied the blade against his skin.

'You know, most people fall asleep when I do this,' John murmured as he smoothly followed the contours of the man's sharp jaw, whisking away the shaving cream in sure, supple strokes.

'I'm not tired,' Sherlock said tightly, trying to sound normal but failing utterly.

Now that he had an actual friend, Sherlock had been quite keen to experiment with some of these odd social activities he had observed, but he wasn't used to anyone standing so close to him.

Did his discomfort show in his face? Sherlock hoped it didn't.

John snorted softly as he washed the blade in a small bowl of hot water.

Discreetly, he glanced up at Sherlock's wings, which were standing so stiff and motionless high above the man's head, that they resembled dark carved stone.

'Well try to relax,' John insisted, 'it's my wings that don't work, my hands are just fine.'

The doctor then narrowed his eyes in annoyance, as Sherlock hummed doubtfully.

'What does _that_ mean?'

'What does what mean?'

'Hmmmm!' John repeated angrily for his benefit, 'You don't believe me? I was shot for God's sake. I was in the hospital. The doctor felt a distinct touch of deja vous here as Mycroft has cornered him with a similar confusing conversation, earlier in the day.

'I believe that you think your wings don't work,' Sherlock replied.

'Did your brother tell you to tell me that?' John asked sharply, 'look, just forget it. This topic is officially off limits, alright?'

The doctor tilted the other man's head with a little more force than necessary, 'just help me open them again, will you? I feel too vulnerable like this.'

'You should learn to do it by yourself.'

John pulled himself away, shocked and taken aback by Sherlock's insensitive and uncaring tone.

'Never mind, sorry I asked,' he muttered in a sour voice.

'If you use your opposite hand to hold one wing, you should be able to open them one at a time, anytime you require,' Sherlock instructed in a matter of fact tone, seemingly quite unperturbed by John's glower.

After a moment of thought, John's jaw dropped open in surprise, 'Wait, why didn't I think of that?'

'Because you're an idiot.

The doctor sighed softly in exasperation, and gave Sherlock a look of disbelief.

'Oh don't be like that, practically everybody is, ' Sherlock chided him, as he examined his reflection in the back of a silver spoon, 'quite good John, but I think you missed a spot.'


	11. Natural instincts

**Anote**: a chapter dedicated to all my fan girl readers :)

Chapter 11- **Natural instincts**

John was standing on the roof of Sherlock's "house", looking down at the forest below while high above, the darkness slowly rolled over him to signal the end of another day.

Two weeks.

Two weeks of nothing.

John sighed in disappointment as he lowered his binoculars.

Well it wasn't two weeks of nothing as had put on some weight, if you can believe that.

The Holmes' family had an incredibly well stocked larder and he had spent his days cooking, trying to find different dishes to tempt Sherlock's finicky appetite. The rest of the time, he had sat on the armchair in Sherlock's room and listened to him talk well into the midnight hours.

Sherlock had the most incredible, most_ brilliant_ adventures, and John wasn't the only one to think so.

The doctor had started to describe some of Sherlock's work in his blog, and the number of followers had increased almost exponentially, to the point where he thought he should tell Sherlock what he had been doing without his permission.

Although the comments for the blog were variable (ranging from, 'no way! what a load of bull! to 'hey, I have a friend who has a problem, can I talk to your friend Sherlock about it ?'), John was pretty happy that there were people out there who were as interested in Sherlock's amazing stories, as he was.

He had even started to make a list of all the people who wanted Sherlock's help, just in case. The man did seem to enjoy having a good mystery to gnaw at.

...and speaking of the devil.

Sherlock came up behind him, and scowled over his shoulder at the peaceful scene below, as though it was a personal insult to his existence.

'Look at that, John,' he snarled down at the woods, 'Quiet. Calm. Peaceful. Isn't it _hateful?'_

John didn't think peace and quiet was hateful, but he had been soldier once. The waiting before the storm was always the worst part.

'Perhaps they have changed their minds?' John thought out loud. 'Do you think the smugglers still want me?'

Sherlock snapped opened his wings automatically, as a cool refreshing breeze came from the east. 'Yes, they are most likely trying to wear down our alertness, and they _will_ succeed if this goes on much longer.'

The detective inhaled deeply as he extended his wings; enjoying the play of it through his feathers.

After days of being cooped up in bed, Sherlock was so grateful that John had_ finally_ given his permission today for him to get up and walk around, that he was quite ready to kiss him.

Being outdoors was indeed liberating on so many levels, and he took great gulpfuls of the clean country air; so different from being in the heart of London.

It was hard for the winged to be inside so much.

Of course being in the minority, they had pushed aside many of their natural instincts and adapted to living with the flightless. But that desire to inhabit wide open spaces was still there; dormant but yet tugging fiercely at some point in their belly, which gave them a reputation for being "twitchy" by their wingless counterparts.

After one last refreshing stretch, Sherlock curled his left wing on to itself to tap repeatedly on John's back.

The doctor grimaced with a flush of embarrassment, but obediently he practiced opening his wings in the way Sherlock had suggested.

Of course John was happy he could now do this all on his own, but at the same time he felt completely stupid. He wondered when he had allowed himself to become so blinded by his misery, that he couldn't figure out a solution so simple.

To be sure, if Sherlock had so much as dared crack a smug smile in his direction (which he had every right to do), John would have punched him in the face. Instead, the detective now looked away with a utterly bored expression.

Oh no, not good.

John knew from experience that a bored Sherlock was a bad thing, and there was a large shot out smiley face on the wall of their room to prove it.

The small doctor warily stepped back from the ledge, suddenly worried that a freak thought might enter the other man's head to push him off.

'John?'

'Yes, Sherlock?' he replied tentatively, watching him from the corner of his eye.

There was no warning for what happened next.

One second Sherlock was standing there; staring thoughtfully up at the sky, and in the next moment he was gone in a moving wall of black.

John's jaw dropped open in shock as he stared up at his friend as he suddenly took flight; climbing higher and higher with each powerful sweep of his huge wings.

'Jesus Christ!' the doctor swore loudly, scrambling to get his mobile out of his pocket and his gun from under his jacket, unable to tear his eyes away as a Sherlock shaped shadow shot up in the air like a rocket; silhouetted against a brilliant red, orange sky.

'DON'T SHOOT!' he yelled down into the phone's tiny mouthpiece, 'Lestrade! It's Sherlock! Don't shoot!'

'Calm down, John,' the Inspector assured him in a completely unconcerned voice, 'I would know that irritating pair of wings anywhere. Bloody bastard is trying to provoke a reaction from your smuggler friends. Good idea on the whole, but he could have given us a heads-up. Well at least we know these trackers you have under your skin work just fine.'

With his heart hammering away in his chest, John spared a moment to glance at the tree line and lawn, but all was quiet.

Then he looked back up, just as Sherlock came out of his climb; snorting with exasperated laughter when the man waved happily at him.

Bloody git! He was going to kill Sherlock if the smugglers didn't do it first.

'Come down!' John shouted up at him, but predictably he was ignored.

As the doctor watched the other man flying almost effortlessly in a lazy circle, a small wistful smile tugged reluctantly at the edges of his mouth, and his heart filled with a sense of longing.

He wanted to be up there again too. He missed flying so much, sometimes it felt as if his skin was on too tight.

John had been debating it awhile, but now he knew without a doubt that when this was all over, he would ask Sherlock to take him up with him.

Sherlock was brave, and he cared about him in his own peculiar way. He would accept the risk to his safety and fly with him, John was sure of it!

The doctor shielded his eyes, to better see the man as he glided along a convenient air current. The edges of Sherlock's dark wings seemed to blaze with a hidden fire as the fading sun beat upon him from above.

'Alright there, John?' the Inspector asked, noting the long silence.

'I do believe that I have bit of a man crush,' John revealed with a giggle.

Lestrade laughed softly, 'yeah, he's really something special when he's likes this. Ninety percent of Scotland yard is in love with his looks, I think. '

'Hang on...we're just friends,' John said sharply; regretting that he had let his mind drift briefly in such a fanciful manner.

'I don't care what you two are,' Lestrade replied blandly, 'get him down, this is dangerous.'

John concurred.

Sherlock's little stunt would prove to their smugglers that he was on the mend, and therefore John wouldn't stay for much longer now. If they wanted John at all, they would have to come soon.


	12. Nudges

**Anote**: Apologises for being away so long. I had too many open stories so I made a decision to close some before I returned to this one. Thank you for reading.

Flashback: _As the doctor watched the other man flying almost effortlessly in a lazy circle, a small wistful smile tugged reluctantly at the edges of his mouth, and his heart filled with a sense of longing. __He wanted to be up there again too. He missed flying so much, sometimes it felt as if his skin was on too tight._

Chapter 12- **Nudges**

Relaxed and free.

That was how Sherlock felt.

Of course, he always felt like this when he took flight, but it seemed better than he remembered from the last time.

Again, he promised himself that he would come back down to the country soon. He couldn't fly in London and in any case hardly anyone did that anymore; too much pollution; too much wire, too much of everything really.

'Enough!' he chided himself for letting his mind wander. He was on a case, one of his most dangerous in years, and one that had now turned deeply personal.

The detective narrowed his eyes, vigilantly scanning the forest and the lawn for any signs of activity. He wasn't expecting any but it was prudent to check.

From his analysis, their mysterious smugglers preferred control, stealth, and darkness to carry out their schemes. They would not act impulsively, but that wasn't to say they couldn't be nudged in that general direction.

As such, Sherlock circled the mansion, beating his wings in a flashy manner and hopefully causing those below to become distracted and careless.

It was the only idea he had at the moment. It was a long shot, but John's safety hung in the proverbial balance.

The gang of 'out of town' of criminals were testing Sherlock to the limit with their incomprehensible ciphers and their intricate almost 'acrobatic-styled' murders, but he couldn't give up. He put on a nonchalant front for John, but he was extremely worried that they hadn't made any fresh headway in the case.

Automatically, he spared a concerned glance for his new friend on the roof, and his eyes widened in sudden surprise.

John was glowing.

Well of course he wasn't glowing, Sherlock knew that, but the whiteness of the man's outstretched wings were stark in the growing darkness.

Sherlock couldn't help but stare at the unreal sight.

The detective had been reading alot of European history lately, particularly as it related to those like John. He was surprised to note that at one time, they were just as plentiful as any other of the winged.

Collectively regarded as wise leaders, teachers and physicians, they were well respected in society. However, Sherlock felt this was more a product of them being taken away from their families and specially educated, more than any particular cleverness on their part.

In the text he was reading, there was also a special note that white wings seemed to manifest without warning. Apparently, the unique color seemed to defy the understanding of ancient scholars then, as much as modern geneticists today. It was this elusiveness, and the inability to control it that made people whisper of divine origins. The ancient Egyptians were particularly fascinated by this idea.

Sherlock could just imagine the awe persons felt when a whole flock of the white winged, suddenly descended from the sky. And now according to John, there were only twenty on his closed facebook page.

What a dreadful loss.

To conclude (because there was a gang of murderous art collectors afoot) over the centuries, the special group of intellectuals had become fat and arrogant and powerful. They had transformed almost into a ruling class on their own, which made them a prime target for reprisals of the often oppressed common folk.

But here was the interesting bit that had made Sherlock's eyes pop, and his wings snap open in surprise.

Aware of their vulnerability and growing unrest, this elite class had hand picked body guards to protect them; bodyguards possessing "pure wings as dark as night" with a wingspan that was "magnificent as it was frightening".

As soon as he had read that part, he naturally wanted to share it with John but the man had fallen asleep. The exhausted doctor was a small ball of fluffy feathers, which made him look dreadfully vulnerable on the huge sofa in the corner.

Sherlock of course knew better.

Not any old body had the courage, stamina and sheer nerve to be an army doctor. With his military training, John would probably do a better job at protecting Sherlock if the roles were reversed.

At the moment though, John was counting on him to watch his six; which was fine; almost like history repeating itself in a fashion.

It was just ...

Arghhh...

In the secret quiet of his mind, it made Sherlock extremely anxious to realise that he liked John. The detective wasn't in the habit of liking anyone, and he felt completely out of his element.

For instance, sometimes Sherlock thought he was talking too much, and he would stutter to a tongue tied halt; wondering anew if John was really serious about his offer of friendship.

Like any case that needed to be solved, he opted for a methodical approach and had begun making a list of things he liked about John. For example, he liked the way the doctor listened to him; he was kind and patient; he made tasty onion soup and so and so on.

In addition, contrary to popular belief, Sherlock didn't like it when people cringed before him. Yes he had a sharp sarcastic tongue, but it didn't intimidate John in the least.

The doctor gave as good as he got.

John was one of the very few people who seemed comfortable around him, and in turn this made for a restful companion. It made him feel peaceful as he watched John pecking away on his laptop in the evenings, with a oh so clever look on his face.

Just then the detective's mobile beeped in his pocket.

'_Please come down'- JW_

Sherlock tucked the device away only to retrieve it when it chirped again.

_'I have something to ask you'- JW_

Interested, Sherlock pulled up to hold his position.

_'Could be dangerous'- JW_

The detective snorted loudly in disbelief, before laughing appreciatively at the man's audacity. Yes, here was someone who could help keep the boredom away.

He looked down at the man as he swung himself headfirst into a steep dive, which was his specialty. The detective passed John on the way down, gliding along the face of the mansion walls for a long moment, before swooping up to hover just a few feet off the side of the roof.

'You are such a blasted show off,' John said in a scolding voice of disapproval.

'Get use to it,' Sherlock remarked unapologetically.

Then, he held out both his arms.

Surprised, John took a step back as Sherlock invaded his personal space. 'What are you doing?!'

The detective jerked back, hurt and upset at this refusal.

'If you want to fly with me, you should step forward not back,' Sherlock informed him with a confused look; already deducing since last week that John wanted to take to the air again.

John, feeling emotionally cornered at Sherlock's quick deduction, opened his mouth to ask the man where he had gotten such a preposterous idea from, when a soft thunk made them both look down.

Sherlock scowled, as he bent his curly head to study the tranquilizer dart protruding out of his chest.

'Look John, I was wrong again. What a dreadful month I am having,' Sherlock slurred in a disappointed voice.

'SHERLOCK!' John screamed as the detective plummeted to the ground below, and without a moment's pause, the small man opened wide his wings and ran off the roof.


	13. The Guardian

**Anote**: ah yes, the dreaded cliff hangers. I guess it is a given when you have an extended action sequence :) Don't let it get to you.

Chapter 13- **The Guardian**

Grab Sherlock and brace for impact.

That was all John had time to plan for and since they were still both alive, the doctor believed it had been a good plan as far as hasty plans went.

At the moment however, John lay flat on his back, with his breath properly knocked out of him.

Fortunately, even though some drug was flowing through Sherlock's blood; slowing down his reflexes, the detective had acted in perfect concert with him, almost as if they had done this a hundred times.

Perhaps living out of each other's hip pocket for the last two weeks was the reason for this closeness, because as the doctor plunged over the ledge, Sherlock had retracted his wings and flung his hand up. Like two parts coming together, John caught his friend's hand easily and pulled him close.

His memory after that was a little fuzzy.

John supposed that he had slowed their descent with his wings. Then most likely after that, he had wrapped them tightly around Sherlock's body when they hit the lawn, and rolled through the forest like a human snowball in a leafy avalanche.

'Ow,' John groaned miserably, as Sherlock's bony frame dug into him uncomfortably. 'Christ Sherlock, why are you so thin?!'

John didn't expect an answer, but falling back into his default doctor mode was helping to clear his mind, and assess the danger they were in.

Suddenly, he realised that Sherlock was shaking uncontrollably. Quickly, John opened his wings to investigate the man laying half sprawled on him.

'Do you feel sick?' he queried anxiously; running a comforting hand over the tumbled curls. The other half of his brain however, ordered him to make a quick situation report, and his eyes darted around the dark clearing accordingly.

He couldn't see anything, but in the distance he could hear Scotland yard shouting. Well the colorful swearing was in English, so John assumed it was the Yard. The cavalry was on the way, but he had no idea where their assailants were. Were they approaching too or had they run off?

Carefully bracing Sherlock at the back of the neck, he gently rolled the man off him and on to his back. John then narrowed his eyes in exasperation and surprise, when he realised that Sherlock had been shaking with suppressed laughter.

'You flew!' Sherlock crowed loudly, at which point John shushed him because some sixth sense told him to.

Uneasily the doctor looked about the trees that creaked gently in the wind. It was dark in here, with barely any light from the moon filtering through.

'I told you, you could do it,' Sherlock continued in a slurring whisper, as he comically poked John repeatedly in the chest with his long bony index finger.

John sighed.

Did he fly?

He thought it was more likely he just glided a bit. In any case, it was a relief to know that he wasn't completely useless in a crisis. The doctor shook his head sharply, as a disturbing image of a dead Sherlock in a growing pool of his own blood, flashed across his imagination.

Where did that come from? It might have unhinged his mind completely, if he hadn't reacted in time to catch his friend and break his fall.

Focus, John!

'Sherl, if you are not hurt...,' he began, as he quickly slipped off Sherlock's expensive shoes to check his ankles. He was relieved that nothing appeared damaged in case they had to make a run for it. '...let us go in a little further and hide until Lestrade comes. I will carry you.'

'That's not right!' Sherlock shouted unexpectedly, and this time John covered his mouth with his hand.

The detective peeled it off with a surprising degree of strength.

'What's not right?' John asked patiently; hoping to win a co-operative Sherlock if he played along.

'I am supposed to protect you.'

'what?'

'The book says so.'

'The book?'

'Professor R.H. Kingsley. Department of History, Cambridge.'

'Sherl, you've been drugged.'

'Not right,' the detective insisted with a petulant scowl as he again poked John hard in the chest.

'Next time you can do the saving, I promise,' John tossed out to mollify him as he placed the detective's arms around his neck and slid his hands under the man's legs, preparing to lift.

Sherlock squawked indignantly when they unexpectedly collapsed in an untidy heap.

'John!' he yelled out in an aggravated whisper as he turned over, almost swallowing his tongue when he spied another tranquilizer dart, this time sticking out of John's chest. The doctor slumped over on the ground in a sickening manner, even as Sherlock snatched the dart and flung it away.

Panicked, Sherlock grabbed the man's shoulders and gave it a good shake, 'John!'

But it was in vain.

The drug had taken hold of the doctor quickly, and the man's eyes rolled up in his head as he blacked out.

A sharp snap of twigs popped loudly from the darkness.

* * *

With military precision, the small group surrounded their prey who lay sprawled in the middle of the small forest clearing. A low, nervous murmur of surprise rippled through their ranks though, as Sherlock defiantly struggled to one knee.

How could he still be awake? How could he move? There was enough sedative in their darts to incapacitate a tiger.

Hardened men they were but there was something decidedly unnerving about all of this, and as such they halted their approach; glancing anxiously at each other. They all stopped, all except one.

Confidently the general stepped forward.

General Shan had successfully completed all her duties and there was just one more loose end to get rid off, and one more 'art treasure' to collect before going home. It was highly convenient in her opinion, that both could be accomplished in one evening.

Behind her, she heard her men shout out in sudden fear and warning, as the taller of the pair slowly opened his dark wings to either side.

Oh yes, she could understand their reaction. It was dark here in this wood, and now that Sherlock had opened his unusually large wings, it seemed even darker.

Ignorant fools!

To be Chinese was to walk with one foot in the present and the other in the past. The sight before them should fill their spirit with awe, not fear!

As such, the woman stopped a few meters away and hastened to bow from the waist; one warrior to another. In her mind's eye, she could almost visualize the sword in The Guardian's hand, hovering protectively over his small charge, as recorded in their European history.

She could respect what Mr. Holmes was trying to do, even though it was a fruitless exercise. Even now inch by inch, the sedative pulsed through the man's system until he collapsed to the ground again, but not before desperately throwing out one wing to cover the doctor.

With an imperious wave of her hand, the general beckoned her men to take their white winged treasure. In the end it took three men; two to lift Sherlock's wing and one to drag John out.

'Do not come after us,' she said down to the detective in heavily accented English, 'You do not have to die. Do not force me to kill you. '

Sherlock gifted her with a burning look of loathing, 'that would be tremendously ambitious of you.'

Outraged by his insolence, her lieutenant made ready to shoot Sherlock where he lay, but the general stopped the execution with a casual wave of her hand.

She struggled not to smile at Sherlock's gall. She greatly admired gall.

A soft whistle caught her attention and she nodded. There was no more time now in any case.

Like the shadows surrounding them, her men softly melted back into the darkness with their prize while in contrast, the policemen crashed through the bushes likes a herd of stampeding cattle.

'Sherlock!' Lestrade shouted worriedly. 'John! Sing out!'

'The fates favor you tonight, Mr. Holmes' she remarked as she calmly but quickly walked off; careful not to turn her back.'We will never meet again.'

And in the ancient ways of her people she pushed her right hand out, palm first to ward off evil.

It couldn't hurt to be cautious with these foreigners, especially one who's blue eyes blazed in the darkness with an icy fire.


	14. Legends and Myths

**Anote**: violent scenes and implied violence. However, John and Sherlock are never seriously harmed in any of my stories, so you don't have to be nervous when reading. Thanks to Arty Diane for her assistance in the plot.

Chapter 14- **Legends and myths**

Admittedly John hadn't been out of the army long, but he was still surprised how his training came back to him with razor like precision, even the bits he had never had cause to use.

_If captured, remove yourself from immediate danger or harm if possible._

Well he wasn't in immediate danger at present, but strong straps held him face down on a long padded table so moving wasn't exactly possible.

_Stay calm. Clean and treat any injuries sustained._

He had been taking deep breaths since he had woken up five minutes ago, so he felt relatively in control; even more so when he realised that his wings were all intact. For a moment there, when he had woken up to find himself strapped down, he had feared the worse. So other than a woozy stomach and an aching head, he was feeling fit as a fiddle.

_Secure food, water and other resources. Search for possible escape routes._

Slowly he raised his head, and scanned the room; straining his eyes to see. All about him were towers of crates and wooden boxes, all crammed together.

What was this place? It had the cold damp feel of a basement.

But as far as escape routes went, John wriggled his right hip, trying to feel if his tracer had been removed from where it had been implanted.

He rejoiced when he felt no pain.

Yes, he still had it in! The Calvary should come crashing in any minute now. The ex- army doctor still jumped though, when a bit of black moved across his line of vision.

'Sherlock?' he whispered hoarsely, as his heart pounded in his chest. 'Is that you?

Silence only followed as he peered intently at the human shaped smudge in the gloom.

'No, he is not here,' an unfamiliar female voice calmly answered.

John twisted his head around trying to see the stranger. 'Who's there?!'

'I am called Shan,' the woman introduced herself as she sat on a box, just out of sight. 'Do you require water?'

'No thank you,' John replied tartly, 'not if its got sedative in it.'

The woman sighed with something like regret.

'So much fire! The two of you are magnificent,' she remarked sadly. 'Easily my best acquisition to grace any private collection so far. It might interest you to know that you and your protector together, ignited such a bidding war as I have never witnessed. It is always like that when the artifact is enhanced by such rich history.'

John felt his insides twist to hear himself described so dispassionately, as though he was a stone head on a pedestal.

'Forgive me if I don't share your enthusiasm,' he hissed up at his captor.

'Unfortunately, your Guardian is too well connected with the British government to just steal away,' she continued, completely unmoved by John's glower. 'A pity, as it might have worked out so much better in the bigger picture. We could of used you against each other, and maintained absolute control of you both. You do seem to care for his well being, as much as he is... devoted to yours.'

John let out a shuddering little breath.

'How you will be treated now, is entirely up to you,' she then explained, 'Obedience will be rewarded, non compliance will not.'

A faint rustle of clothes made him look up quickly.

'Now that we have had a test run with two other subjects,' the woman remarked, 'we know how to care for you and for your beautiful feathers. You will be well looked after by your new owners.'

_Do not antagonize your captors. Prevent injury at all costs._

'Is Murray or Aya here?' he asked eagerly, relieved to hear mention of his two missing facebook friends, 'Let me speak to them.'

'Murray is dead,' she replied, 'Aya will be brought to you when the cook has made supper.'

A hollow, burning ache settled in John's chest.

'How did he die?!' he growled in a sharp accusing voice, as the woman called the General by her underlings, finally stepped fully into the light.

Gradually, she noticed where he was looking and she gingerly touched the fresh stitches on her left cheek.

'A gift from your protector at the Heathrow,' she said with a slight smile, 'I look forward to returning the favor.'

'Won't be too long now. Sherlock's going to come for me.'

'I truly hope I can meet him again,' she replied seriously, before showing him a wicked looking knife, 'for slicing wing tendons. Oh, I will enjoy that very much. They say the pain is intolerable.'

John's mouth turned to dust as the woman handled the short blade with an aptitude that couldn't be missed.

'I am getting foolish and sentimental in my old age,' she said conversationally as she tucked away the knife. 'I can't believe I didn't shoot your Guardian, when I had the chance.

'Why do you keep calling him that?' John blurted out, before he could stop himself.

The woman rolled her eyes, completely disgusted with a younger generation that appeared to know nothing of their past.

'How can you not know this?' she snapped irritably, 'your people would have died out if not for their guard.'

_What on earth?_

'I am supposed to protect you,' John mumbled as he suddenly remembered Sherlock's words.

'Yes,' she confirmed with a nod of her head, 'your kind picked the dark ones for their superior strength, stealth and ferocity.'

'Dark ones?' John could only gawk at this information. 'We did?'

'They were said to be loyal protectors even on to death,' she shared.

'Really?' he said stupidly in his bemusement.

'A very Chinese way of thinking,' she tacked on in a complimentary sort of way.

Silence fell between them, in what John acknowledged was the oddest conversation he had in awhile, which was saying something considering Sherlock had enthusiastically lectured him one night on the 243 types of tobacco ash.

As he suddenly remembered the look of animation on Sherlock's face, and the way his long thin fingers gestured excitedly as he spoke so lovingly about his website, it brought a pang of longing to John's heart. He hoped the man was okay. Had he recovered from his brush with whatever sedative he had been hit with? He had been near to delirium when last he saw him.

'I am curious,' she interjected suddenly, 'Can you sense his presence? Can he sense yours? Is it like the histories say, in that you bend his will to yours? '

'What the bloody hell are you talking about?!'

The woman squinted her eyes assessingly.

'Look, we are just two blokes from England whose lives accidentally collided,' John found himself anxiously explaining, as his worry for Sherlock came to the fore. 'I am just a doctor that he picked up to take care of him, and Holmes is an eccentric sort of academic who hangs out in morgues way too much! That's all! Just two blokes who also happened to be winged.'

'Indeed.'

'Yeah, nothing special at all, none of this mumbo jumbo mysticism.'

'Mumbo jumbo?' she inquired with a frown.

'It's a technical term.'

'We have long deactivated your homing device, so it is doubtful that we would have an opportunity to explore such fascinating possibilities.'

'He will find us. He's very good at solving puzzles,' John said proudly, before he could remember himself.

The woman snorted in annoyance. 'We have had to take the long way round to get home, because of his interference.'

She gestured with her hand.

John strained his ears and in the distance he could just pick out the dull thrumb of a ship's engine, rumbling like a living thing.

'We are in the middle of the Atlantic, but still you believe he will come for you,' she remarked, noting his calm look, 'Perhaps your accidentally meeting wasn't so accidental as you insist.'

John craned his head around to met her maniacal gaze. It was clear that Shan was fanatically devoted to legends and myths, and nothing would dissuade her.

He didn't know much about these things.

Sure as a doctor he had seen some unexplained things in his day, but he hadn't felt _driven_ to seek out Sherlock for protection. In fact, to his way of thinking, it was very much the other way around. Wasn't he the one who had jumped off a roof trying to save the detective? For all his massive intellect, Sherlock didn't even have the good sense that God gave puppies!

John would agree though that it sounded all lovely and romantic, to think he had a protector that would spread out his wings and give his life to save his, but that wasn't the reason he could be so calm and confident.

He knew Sherlock was coming because the man was relentless, and he wouldn't stop until he found him.

He was Sherlock's friend, and that meant something.

'Better hurry along and keep a sharp eye out then. Chop chop,' John remarked in a scathing voice, 'Not unless you want a matching scar on the other cheek. Oh by the way, just so you know, I can do the stitches up for you a bit neater than the butcher you used.'

The woman gave him a cruel twisted smile, as she melted away and back into the darkness.

* * *

Lestrade looked up at where Sherlock was staring out the window. Well everyone else was looking too, but the brooding detective had his back to them, and didn't notice.

Ever since they had returned to the Yard, Sherlock had been agitatedly pacing, but now his motions stilled, as he stood like a vigilant sentinel with his arms crossed over his chest.

There were a few times Lestrade had seen Sherlock with his wings open on either side of him, but that was mainly when he was out of doors and at the precise moment before he took flight. To the Inspector's knowledge, the man didn't normally keep them open when he was inside, simply because office foot traffic had to take significantly large detours whenever he did so.

No one complained though.

Lestrade came up beside Sherlock, and offered him a sip of contraband scotch he kept hidden in his desk. 'Aren't you tired? Maybe you should sit for a bit?'

The group of policemen were all huddled together in the room behind them, all more of less shell shocked and disappointed.

John's tracker had worked like a charm and they had Shan and company, properly surrounded at Heathrow International. Of course, Sherlock being Sherlock had gone ahead and engaged; immediately barreling through a line of people, and wrestling viciously with a older looking woman all over the shiny floor of the airport, much to the horror of passengers.

Lestrade was only been mildly annoyed at the detective, because they had the upper hand this time. As such, he had called for the remaining group of suspects to stand down, expecting to be obeyed as they had the superior numbers. He hadn't expected that their quarry would rush a group of armed policemen.

Sherlock had seemed to know though, as he had shouted out a warning but it was too late. One shot was all it took to cause complete pandemonium in the busy airport, and by the time the smoke cleared, three of the Shan's henchmen were dead and the rest had disappeared.

And to top it all off, the doctor's tracker had gone off line, almost immediately after that. The detective had turned a shocking shade of white when that had occurred, and Lestrade had to discreetly prop him up, as the other man buckled under the strain.

Sherlock took the mug that was offered, and downed the fiery liquid in one gulp.

'Maybe you should sit Gary,' Sherlock remarked, as he pulled him down and propped the man on the window ledge, 'no matter the permutation, it would still have happened the way it did. They would not have let you take them prisoner. I should have warned you.'

'k, let me just rest for a minute,' Lestrade mumbled tiredly as he lay his head back on the glass. 'we'll find another lead, don't worry. We're not giving up.'

Sherlock patted his shoulder absently, as he resumed staring out at the ocean lapping at the harbour dock; somehow finding a view he had seen a thousand times, strongly compelling today.


	15. Freund

**Anote**: Freund is the German word for friend.

Chapter 15- **Freund**

John heaved a sigh, as he took his pencil and drew up another mark alongside the eleven others that were already on the wall of his "room".

Shan wasn't kidding when she said they were taking the long way around.

The ex-army doctor supposed that all things considered, he should be more anxious or something like that, but the mind numbing effects of captivity were wearing him down; particularly when the only person who could speak English on the boat, was his jailer.

John stepped back to look at the pencil marks and sighed again. It wasn't all bad, at least they didn't have him strapped to a table anymore like some mad science experiment.

'Onkel!' an excited little voice called to him German, and the man smiled as he turned around to face his one brilliant ray of sunshine in the dark; Aya.

When the little girl had first been brought to him so that they could have supper, she was pale and shaking. She had cried out with joy when she caught sight of him, and had immediately launched herself into his arms, recognizing the kindly face of the doctor from his profile picture on the internet. He had to tuck her into his lap and feed her from his plate that first night, because she refused to let go of him.

To his relief, the little six year old girl had been left in his care, as she wasn't eating or sleeping properly (big surprise there). Aya might not know exactly what was going on, but even though she was being fed and given treats, books and toys, she knew she was very far from home, and that her tearful pleas for 'mama' would continue to go unheeded.

His familiar face seemed to revive her spirits; a link to happier times so to speak and John was glad for their bond. He was glad, because in the days that followed, he felt himself almost crushed under the weight of his present reality.

They weren't being mistreated, far from it, as massive amounts of protein laden food were pressed on them at regular intervals. However, if he didn't have Aya to consider, John was certain that he might have become completely unglued. It was clear that their captors were 'fattening' them up, as his feathers began to get even thicker and more glossy in the short space of time.

There were days he felt like he would vomit if he took another bite. Aya would squeeze his hand under the table worriedly, and he would force himself to swallow.

He had to keep strong.

Based on the past narrow escapes that Sherlock had described for him, he had to be ready for whatever mad/completely _brilliant_ scheme the detective was cooking up to rescue him. John was just worried that there was no way to let Sherlock know he had Aya with him.

Worrying about it though, had given John a brilliant idea all on his own.

Shan didn't allow them above deck, but that wasn't to say that each and every crew member didn't sneak down, to try and catch a glimpse. It wasn't everyday you saw a white winged human far less two!

Aya was unaffected by this extra attention, as she was long used to random strangers just sitting and staring at her blue eyes, white wings and her short blonde hair curled around her head in a cute pixie cut.

At John's insistence, he taught her to curtsy and sing for the people who visited. More and more of their crew came, eagerly bringing their musical instruments to string a tune for the little girl, who livened the monotony of the voyage.

She had even danced for them once, and the men dived to collect her small feathers as she twirled which, because of her youth, shed a lot more frequently than John's did.

John couldn't have been more pleased at how his idea of creating a 'bread crumb' trail for Sherlock to follow, was coming together. As soon as these men docked, the doctor was sure they would run out and tell stories of the white winged girl that they had met. That was what he would do, if the situations were reversed.

In the meantime, John was certain that some of the crew were looking at him in sympathy, but the language barrier hampered any real communication. It was possible that they knew exactly what fate was theirs at the end of this voyage.

There was a sailor on board who was apparently the ship doctor, but judging from the way that man always smelled of spice, John concluded that he also doubled as the cook. The doctor had brought a man who had gotten his hand caught in a piece of a heavy equipment, and between the two of them they had worked on reducing the swelling with what little they had on board.

In return, the doctor/cook had found a Bible written in English and had given it to him, and John was grateful for something to keep his mind busy.

The next day the crewman whose hand had been injured, stuffed a newspaper in John's pocket, when he had come in to sweep and mop their room. John's heart began to pound anxiously, but he dared not to take it out until he was alone.

When the last crew member had left, the small man frantically pulled out the paper.

Disappointment flooded him as he looked at the unfamiliar text which appeared to be nothing more than rows of little squiggles. He could read a little Arabic but it didn't look Arabic. Was it Hindi?

Then he turned it over and almost choked, when he saw the printed picture of Sherlock on the other side.

It was so unexpected that his knees gave way. Aya had swarmed over him then, hugging and peppering his face with little kisses of concern.

It wasn't a big picture and John brought it close to his eyes; devouring each detail of the grainy photo.

The other man looked well, thank God! Worry for Sherlock's well being had gnawed away at him every day that he was a prisoner. Shan wouldn't tell him what had happened at Heathrow and John didn't know if the man had been hurt, like how she had been. He hoped the other man was doing well, and was taking good care of his still healing injuries.

With all the extra time on his hands, John's mind had also inevitably turned to the bit of history that Shan had shared about the Winged. John was a practical man, and didn't believe in all this mysticism that his jailer subscribed to. Yes, he could concede that his friendship with the dark winged detective had developed incredibly quickly, and yes he noted that Sherlock rarely let him leave his side. Lestrade had also told him that he never saw Sherlock listen to anyone like how he listened to John; not ever. But it was all coincidence and circumstance; a random set of occurrences that now seemed important because of some interesting historical trivia.

He didn't bend Sherlock's will! To quote a colorful American army mate he knew, '_what a bunch of hooey!_'

The only aspect that really concerned John in all of this, was that despite Sherlock's rather frosty and standoffish approach to '_feelings,'_ the detective seemed to be quite fascinated with the stories that hinted his past ancestors were protectors of some sort. As such, it tore at something inside John, thinking that Sherlock had to watch him get dragged off infront of him. Believing as Sherlock did, it was probably quite unpleasant for the man to witness.

It had taken a while for John to calm himself as all of these upsetting thoughts flowed in his mind, but when he did, he had to smile in wonder at the unusual black and white photo that was so beautifully composed, it made you look twice.

Sherlock hadn't been looking directly at the camera when the shot was taken, but that was probably because John knew the detective would have never stood still and let himself be photographed. The detective loathed having to explain his thought processes to the media, and avoided them at all costs. Their monumental stupidity he said, was bad for his health.

The lucky cameraman had managed to capture Sherlock with his wings wide open, and angled as if to maintain his balance. Nothing unusual there, except for the fact that detective was standing alongside a large jet plane which was parked on the deck of a gigantic aircraft carrier.

It was a peculiar and spectacular study in symmetry, metal vs flesh; white against black; two powerful flying creations at rest and for a moment co-existing in the same frame of space.

John had snorted at how poetic that all sounded but then his chest hurt, as he imagined what entertaining and scathing remark Sherlock would have made.

But what did this mean? Was Sherlock at sea? Now?

John's hands trembled as he passed his fingers lightly over the caption, wishing he could read the words.

How the hell did the man get on a carrier in the first place? It wasn't a place for civilians.

John had grinned as he folded the paper carefully. Completely mad/utterly brilliant rescue plan indeed! He couldn't wait.

As he slid the paper into his sock, John wondered if Mycroft wasn't right about him; maybe he did do better with a little danger in his life.

Aya called his named again, pulling the small doctor away from his memories.

As he walked across his room to the little table, the girl held up her drawing of the two them flying hand in hand over a green field, with a waterfall and a big rainbow arching over it all.

He softly kissed the top of her blonde head, 'It is very beautiful. Thank you...err... Danke.'

She giggled as she corrected his awful pronunciation, and he hugged her tightly, so grateful for the resilience of youth that allowed her to find happiness in the midst of their plight.

The little girl then snuggled into his arms with a contented sigh; closing her eyes as though ready for a nap. John sat down on the bed so she could be comfortable, and absently picked up a black crayon and began doodling on the drawing.

First a face, then a body and then ...

'Sherlock, where the bloody hell are you?' he murmured anxiously. 'We're ready to get out of here.'

Aya opened her eyes and looked down with curiosity at the amendments in her drawing, 'Onkel?'

'Oh, he's that friend I was telling you about,' he explained when he realised what he was drawing. He took the crayon and started filling in some more features. 'He's a tall chap, and likes to stay warm so he wears these gloves, a thick scarf and a big giant coat.'

Aya didn't understand his words of course, but she enjoyed the doctor's soft voice and the interesting picture that was coming alive under his hands.

John raised an eyebrow at his drawing. It never occurred to him before what a colorful character Sherlock was, both in manner and dress.

'And he has this childish bit of bushy hair for a man his age.'

Aya giggled happily, as John drew in the small circles to represent Sherlock's thick curls.

'And he's got these massive black wings like you wouldn't believe,' he added as he carefully outlined his limbs.

Aya reached over and tapped his sock where she knew the paper was hidden. Checking to make sure the coast was clear, John unrolled his sock and pulled out the folded paper.

'She-r-lock,' she repeated, rolling the name awkwardly in her foreign tongue as she pointed, 'freund.'

'Yeah...' he said softly as he hugged her again, 'freund'.


	16. Negotiations

Chapter 16- **Negotiations**

The helicopter landed on the deck of the aircraft carrier with a soft jolt, and Mycroft Holmes stepped out the door. The chief of the watch, long used to dignitaries falling out the sky, hurried forward to meet him.

'Where is he?' Mycroft inquired in his usual succinct tones, as he scanned the hustle and bustle that comprised late evening maneuvers.

The uniformed man pointed at the far end of the deck where Sherlock stood alone, staring out at the water as it churned about the sides of the massive ship. However, as the shadowy government agent turned in that direction, it was only then he noted the group of soldiers ranged in a line about 20 metres behind Sherlock; standing at ease but still vigilant. 'What has he done? Is my brother under arrest?'

'Not at all, sir,' the chief replied as he walked at his side, 'just keeping an eye on him. Ever since he flew on board a few days ago, he has a habit of standing there at the edge; staring.'

Mycroft nodded his head, 'He is very ...concerned, for his missing colleague. Please convey my thanks to your commanding officer. I appreciate him deploying his men in such a fashion.'

'No need, sir,' the solider responded in the typical clipped tones that bespoke his military training, 'the men volunteered to keep the watch. He maybe a civilian, but he's sailing half way across the globe to get Captain Watson back. Your brother is one of us now. We'll keep him safe. '

Mycroft thought it best not to respond to this pronouncement and with a curt nod, they parted ways at the line of officers. The military had their own code to describe honor, loyalty and friendship and apparently, his little brother's actions had fulfilled their exacting criteria.

As Mycroft came alongside his sibling though, he couldn't help be struck at how changed Sherlock was. It wasn't only the fact that he had swapped out of his usual tailored suits and was now wearing a plain back tee, with one of those million pocketed black cargo pants and matching but dreadfully unfashionably boots, it was the uncharacteristic blank look on the man's unshaven face.

'Sherlock!' he had to yell a few times, in order to penetrate the man's mental bubble.

The other man looked genuinely confused when he turned his head. 'Mycroft?'

It took a further ten seconds after that for animation and awareness to return to Sherlock's expression.

'Did you speak to HER?!' he snapped aggressively, and Mycroft felt more reassured by this return to normal behaviour.

Mycroft sighed as he dusted imaginary lint off his sleeves. 'I spoke to her as well as the Prime minister. Sherlock, you do know its against official British policy to...'

'Oh for the love of God, Mycroft!,' he shouted, 'you didn't explain it right. This is not terrorism, this is a kidnapping!'

'Exactly.'

Sherlock growled low in his throat and slitted his eyes as he quickly re-analysed Mycroft's words. 'You said official, perhaps something unofficial was hinted?'

'Nothing was hinted at,' Mycroft drawled, spinning his brother out for a moment longer, 'you have the men you requested, and they are on their way to the coastal city of Shantou in the Guangdong Province.'

'Thank you, thank you! You are the most wonderful brother ever created,' Sherlock muttered feelingly, quite overcome with relief as he grabbed the man's shoulder. 'I mean it, I really do!'

'Now _that_ was entirely uncalled for,' the older man deadpanned, to which Sherlock huffed in quiet amusement.

'How did you deduce that they are taking John to Guangdong?

'The sedative they used,' the detective remarked, feeling much happier and calmer than he had in a long time, 'I have never experienced anything like that. It was so powerful but yet it didn't have any side effects. Clearly not made in a lab. Most likely using all natural ingredients. I got lucky when I broke down the components, and found traces of a unique plant that is only grown in this province.'

'And then you took a plane over to investigate,' Mycroft filled in automatically, 'Did you find the plant?'

'I did find it,' Sherlock confirmed in a low voice, 'along with John's anxious buyer.'

Mycroft gave him a sharp look. This was news that he had not been aware of.

'Is that loathsome excuse for humanity, still alive?' the agent inquired in a hard voice.

Sherlock eyes flashed to his. 'Yes, but I thought it prudent to remove myself from the scene and put some distance between us.'

Mycroft cleared his throat with a soft cough. 'Wise precaution. I commend your restraint.'

Sherlock ground his teeth as he averted his gaze.

In the course of being a detective and facing off with numerous criminals over the years, he had occasion to defend himself, sometimes to the death. It wasn't in his nature though to initiate a physical confrontation, not when he could use his mind to strip an adversary down to the bone. However, that was before he learned that it was being left to the discretion of John's buyer as to whether he wanted to keep John around, or just order the man's wings to be cut off. The urge to commit murder right there in the hotel's tastefully decorated tea room had been so strong, that it had taken all of Sherlock's will power to stumble out into the road, and leave Shan's client untouched.

Sherlock could feel his heart beat starting to speed up as he remembered how he felt. Quickly he shut down that corner of his mind, before it could overpower him again. Now was not a time for rage; that would come later. Now was the time for clear thinking and precise execution.

'How many men are on their way to China?' Sherlock wanted to know.

Mycroft typed something into his mobile, and the answering ping came back immediately, 'Five hundred and nineteen persons have been listed on the flight manifest to Guangdong.'

Sherlock's jaw fell open.

'Is that enough men?'

Sherlock nodded dumbly, his usual loquaciousness having deserted him.

'The queen knew someone, who knew someone,' Mycroft teased, enjoying Sherlock's hit-by-a-frying-pan expression. 'Germany of course wanted to be part of any rescue efforts, and it just snowballed after that through Europe. Her majesty approves of your suggestion that a strong message be sent to discourage further attempts of kidnapping.'

The agent's mood shifted though as he waved a newspaper in front Sherlock's face, 'But just what is the plan? You cannot exactly sneak up on them now with your picture on the front page.'

'Sneak? I do not _sneak_!' Sherlock hissed in an insulted voice, 'sometimes, I really wonder if you know me at all.'

Irritated now, Mycroft turned around to face him,'Then what? These men have been placed at your disposal by her Majesty, with the request that you bring Dr. Watson back safely to her. I think she would rather you do that without further bloodshed. She hasn't forgiven you for that scene at Heathrow.'

'I was so stupid, Mycroft. I thought we could arrest Shan _and_ collect John at the same time. Stupid! Stupid!' Sherlock berated himself sternly as he stared out at the water,'That's not going to happen this time. We are going to wait until we have eyes on John and then we act.'

'We might be out of international waters before that occurs.'

Sherlock shrugged indifferently.

'An arrest would be most unlikely.'

'Do I look like I really give a _curse_ about an arrest?!' Sherlock shouted as his wings exploded open, releasing all of his pent up anger and frustration, 'I will _not_ lose John for a third time!'

With a loud exhausted sigh, the detective stretched his long arms and then cracked the aching bones in his neck, trying to relax. He then drifted off into his own world again, staring at his favourite spot on the horizon. It took him a while before he realized that his brother was intently staring at the side of face. 'What?'

'What exactly are you looking at out there? ' the older man asked curiously, 'I see nothing.'

Sherlock checked his compass and pointed. 'Seven days ago, the _Yin Qui_ refueled in South Africa, and there was talk of two white winged passengers; a medical minded man and a little girl. The final stop for the vessel is in Guangdong. It has to be John and the missing German girl, Aya Mueller. They are on board that ship, I am sure of it!'

'That sound's reasonable,' Mycroft agreed.

'If Shan and her clients are so bloody interested in the Winged,' Sherlock hissed through clenched teeth, 'I will meet them in the harbour, and brand my image across their eyeballs in a manner that they will_ never_ forget.'

Mycroft frowned, bewildered and anxious by the intense emotion rolling off his sibling in thick, choking waves. It was indeed disconcerting to hear Sherlock's dark feathers rustling sharply as the man's entire body trembled like a pressure cooker on high.

'Are you growing out a beard?' the older man interjected in what he hoped was a soothing voice.

'What? Oh, the beard,' Sherlock replied distractedly, scrubbing the side of his scruffy face with one hand.

'I don't think I have seen you this unshaven since you were 17 and you were trying to impress that boy, ' the older man continued, digging cautious little holes, trying to discover more information from his recalcitrant sibling. 'What was his name again?'

'His name was Victor,' Sherlock answered. 'Perhaps I better shave before John walks right past me.'

The detective stiffened in sudden understanding and rolled his eyes.

'We're not lovers, Mycroft...'

The man raised a surprised eyebrow. Sherlock hadn't felt the need to explain himself since he was about eleven.

'...John is simply important .'

Mycroft shook his head. He didn't see how John was going to quite fit into their complicated lives, romantically or otherwise, but they had bigger concerns at the moment.

'I have another option for you to consider ,' Mycroft threw out in a casual tone of voice as he tapped his umbrella to the metal deck below, 'we could sell the mansion.'

Sherlock scowled in confusion.

'General Shan is a cold blooded murderer yes, but she's a business woman too,' the man explained, 'I am sure we could get two million if we advertise for a quick sale. This would put us in a position to be buyers, so to speak.'

For the first time the detective turned fully to face his brother, and the two lapsed into a steady silence, as they stared at each other.

'You said John was important,' Mycroft reminded him.

'We can keep the idea on the table but if it really comes to that, you may have to handle the "negotiations",' Sherlock finally replied, 'Shan would never listen to me. We have a special mission in life to reach out and harm each other.'

'Understood.'

'I don't like it when you do this,' Sherlock continued with a skeptical expression, 'it shakes up the natural order of things when you are this helpful.'

Mycroft sighed in exasperation, even as he reached out to clasp the hand that his brother held out to him. 'Truly Sherlock, that is not funny.'

As their fingers touched however, the older man had a sudden and intense flashback to an exceedingly old memory.

When Sherlock had just been a week old, Mycroft has stolen the baby from the crib, and popped him into the little wicker basket that was attached to his bicycle front. Eight year old Mycroft had been so excited to have a brand new brother, that he couldn't wait to show him off to everyone at school. Little Sherlock hadn't cried or fretted at the bumpy ride all over the county. Rather, he seemed to enjoy the excursion very much. Sherlock had just clutched the edge of the basket with one tiny fist, and looked up at him trustingly with those same big blue eyes, and with his already over sized wings fluttering gently behind him.

'Sherlie, I am not exactly equipped to catch you if you fall,' Mycroft suddenly found himself blurting out, as he closed the space between them with an awkward one armed hug. 'Please be careful.'

Sherlock snorted in disdain, 'Now you're just be completely ridiculous.'


	17. Safe harbour

Chapter 17- **Safe Harbour**

John rubbed large, soothing circles on Aya's back, as she clung tightly to his neck. Her sobs had quieted down considerably now, but still her breath came out in short agonized pants.

The crew had tried to separate them this morning.

The doctor hadn't been aware of what was going on at first, but Aya had been a captive for far longer than he had. The little girl had instinctively lashed out, managing to punch one man in his eye, and smack the other one hard in the chest with her small sneakered foot, before John finally came to his senses.

They let go of her quick, when the doctor waded in with a bellow of anger.

Truthfully, the crewmen's hearts were not in it.

Yes, they had signed on to obey the captain but not this; this was something else entirely. The man who had gotten hit in the eye, even picked up Aya's small teddy bear to return it, hoping to win a smile from the little princess, as they affectionately called her. However, he was now in deep disgrace and 'her highness' would not even look at him.

The dejected crewman shuffled away, passing General Shan in the narrow corridor who had come down to see what was taking so long.

'Bring her,' Shan commanded imperiously, unaffected by John's hateful stare, 'we have arrived. It is time to leave.'

The ex-army doctor felt strangely disconnected from his body as he shifted Aya in his arms to pick up the small teddy bear from off the table, and follow the woman. It was as if he was watching this nightmare happen to someone else. He didn't know how to feel exactly, now that it was certain that the help he was so confident would come, had not materialised.

Of its own accord his mind flashed briefly back in time, when he had watched Sherlock flying at sunset. It made him smile ever so briefly to imagine his friend free from pain, and soaring through the air. That was how John would always want to remember Sherlock as he stumbled out on the deck, almost blinded by the strong sunlight.

Cautiously, Aya took a quick peek around them but immediately hid her face in his neck again, snuggling tightly with her teddy bear. John could not blame her as the sight was hardly encouraging. He squinted about him at the squalid, but extremely busy harbour that looked like it was straight out of a Pirate's of a Caribbean movie.

John gave himself a mental head slap.

His Pirate analogy was as good as any, as the small bustling port was hardly an official one, teeming with police or customs officials.

As he stared of into the distance, his heart began to pound in a hard increasing rhythm; fear clogging his every breath not only for himself but for the warm, trusting bundle in his arms. He had suspected for some time that he and Aya would be separated but...he had hoped. John took in a deep shaky breath and released it on a soft sob, as one of Shan's own men approached him now, gesturing that he release the girl.

'Let me put her in your arms!' he barked at the man.

The man looked at Shan for a translation.

'I can do this!' John insisted, looking at her in turn, 'She could hurt herself. You wouldn't want the girl damaged, do you?'

The woman waved her hand in a languid manner, giving her approval.

'You are very strong,' John whispered quickly down at the little girl, gently caressing the smooth head, 'and so very brave; the very best little person I know.'

Aya raised her head with a look of curiosity and he leaned over to press a soft kiss to her forehead, 'I will find you, again. I promise.'

Angry, confused tears began to form in her eyes when John walked forward, and put her in the stranger's arms.

'Onkel, John?' she whined unhappily, whirling around as if not to lose sight of a most beloved face. The doctor backed off hastily, making a stay there gesture with his hands.

'Please Aya,' he begged, his voice cracking under the strain of what he was about to do. 'Please, stay with him. You could be hurt. Please.'

But Aya wasn't have any of that.

For the first time since she had been on board, she opened her wings fully; bursting free from the man's tight grasp and flying the short distance back into John's arms.

The crew who were on the deck, all stood spellbound by what they had seen and as such, were slow to follow whatever Shan was yelling at them in her guttural native tongue. In the meantime, John clutched the girl in his arms, and backed away until he hit the ship rails with the small of his back. Desperately he hunted around, looking for a viable means of escape.

Down below, some of the people on the dock were pointing at them, and John threw a despairing eye in their direction. The were the usual roughs; labourers unwisely drinking away their meager pay, merchants loudly hawking their shifty looking wares, and Sherlock playing dominoes with an Indian in a tricolor rasta hat.

'Bloody hell!,' John breathed in shock, dropping Aya in his astonishment.

Aya, as all boys and girls her age were wont to do, immediately repeated what he said. However, John was much too distracted to reprove her. With an annoyed pout at being ignored, the little girl stood on tip toe trying to see over the side at whatever was so fascinating. Her quick eye easily found Sherlock's trademark bushy hair in the crowd, and she squeaked happily; frantically waving one of her small wings at him. She did an excited little hop, when the detective slowly unfolded his massive left wing and waved it in return.

No one else shared Aya's enthusiasm though, judging from the sharp gasps of shock that now came from the crowd. They all backed off hastily when the pale faced foreigner, who had been so quite and unassuming up till now playing his dominoes and sipping his watered down tea, unfolded his other impossibly large wing in the rather small seating area.

Sherlock abandoned his dominoes then, and looking neither left nor right he strode up the narrow pier. Those who were quick enough, were able to duck under his outstretched wings; those who weren't, dived into the water; spluttering and cursing Sherlock's back.

Aya giggled gleefully at all the fun, and bounced repeatedly on her toes trying to get a better look. She liked Sherlock's blunt manner very much, and she was already planning on asking him to come to her next doll tea party.

'Shan!'Sherlock called out as their eyes connected, 'You have something of mine. I want it back. NOW!'

The men on board backed away, as the detective's voice cracked like a whip over their necks.

Through all of this, John could only stare stupidly at Sherlock's changed appearance. The detective's close fitting suits normally gave him a posh, effeminate appearance that seemed to hint that he would be easy to knock over in a fight.

But he didn't look like that now.

John always suspected given the right incentive, Sherlock could be positively terrifying.

'John?' a calm voice cut through his wool gathering. Sherlock gave him a quick head to toe scan, just as the doctor did the same. They simultaneously exhaled a relieved breath to see each other unharmed.

'I am all right,' John announced, just as a number of Shan's gang jumped off the boat and on to the wooden dock, like a shower of black beetles.

'Oh, are we going to fight now?!' Sherlock exclaimed in delight as the men ran towards him, 'how marvelous!'

The doctor didn't feel that it was marvelous at all, and he felt his blood turn to ice when his friend was surrounded. However, the detective didn't seem to mind at all.

'Close your wings, you idiot!' John bawled out, wondering what the hell was wrong with Sherlock. The delicate bones of their wings were only good for flight, not fight. Everyone knew that, but Sherlock apparently had different ideas when one of the men threw a knife at him.

John sucked in a harsh terrified breath but with a clever twist of his feathers, Sherlock caught the blade with his wing and swung it around, launching it back at full speed towards his attacker, who had to dive for cover.

By now the entire group were on top the detective but instead of even trying to block a single blow, Sherlock unexpectedly tugged the first man to his chest and with one solid kick broke his leg. Using his large wings to keep his balance and increase his agility beyond human ability, Sherlock was able to again and again manipulate the inertia of his attackers and shove them to the ground.

Of course, John desperately wanted to be down there helping, but he couldn't relinquish his responsibility to Aya. He had to get her to safety, even if it meant abandoning Sherlock there on the dock, outnumbered and alone.

Fortunately John's anxiety was for naught when very quickly, Sherlock accumulated a mass of screaming men all in a pile at his feet. This was simply because the detective didn't release his attackers, without breaking something with an alarming degree of accuracy. Sherlock was taking no chances of being taken off guard, like how he had been last time when John had first stumbled upon him in the alley.

'Quit complaining!' Sherlock scolded the heap of bodies, 'you're not dead, are you?!'

One of the men, seeing his comrades in arms completely incapacitated, dropped his weapon and dashed off, only to be run down by the detective.

He was a small man and Sherlock had no trouble catching up with him.

'Sherlock, that's enough,' John called down as his friend put the other man in a headlock,'release him. He's given up.'

Aya didn't agree at all.

'Vernichte ihn (Crush him), Onkel Sherlock!' she screeched in a bloodthirsty manner. Sherlock, however, needed no encouragement, as his pent up rage lent him strength and sharpened his focus.

John frowned in concern as the tall man continued to strangle his would be attacker.

'Sherlock, stop that!'

The man started to turn purple as his air supply began to run off.

'Sherlock, I ORDER you to let him go!'

Shan's man fell to the pier like a marionette whose strings were just cut.

_What the hell?_

The unexpectedness of Sherlock's release, surprised and alarmed the doctor. What did this mean? Could Shan be right? Could he exert his will over Sherlock? Horrified, he quickly checked the man's face, searching to see if the detective was shocked or confused.

He felt relief flood him as the only thing registering on Sherlock's expression, was a sulky pout that John had cut short his fun. When the doctor glanced down to check on Aya next, she was giving him the same face and John rolled his eyes in exasperation.

In the meantime, Shan leaned casually over the edge of the boat, 'Good morning, Mr. Holmes.'

'Good morning!' the young Englishman replied cheerfully, 'as cliched as this may sound Shan, you didn't really think you could get away from me, did you?'

'This is my country,' she reminded him, 'I have the home court advantage, as the Americans say.'

'True true,' Sherlock was forced to concede, 'your local authorities have refused to assist. I was accused of being _very_ annoying. Can you believe that?'

'Oh for God's sake, Sherlock!' John yelled out as he picked up Aya and perched her on his hip, 'this isn't a James Bond movie, get us the bloody hell out of here!'

'Oh right,' the man agreed with a flustered look, as he reluctantly cut short the scathing speech he had prepared for this moment.

'I am not surprised that the authorities did not want to help you,' Shan informed them with a confident smile.'They have no sway in certain areas, and this place is one of them. Do you realise that I can throw a fistful of dollars into this crowd, and they would fall on you like a pack of rabid dogs?'

Of course Sherlock glanced over his shoulder then, as a tense eager ripple went through the spectators who had greatly enjoyed the fight. Those who could speak English translated eagerly for those who couldn't. As one, the crowd began to inch forward.

'Enough posturing!' Sherlock sneered and with a single powerful swoop of his wings, he launched himself ten metres in the air. 'I came for Dr. Watson and I will have him now. I am sure Miss Aya can have her pick of any protector that she wants.'

It was around this time, that the real screaming began.

John had immediately fallen back as surprised as everyone else. From where he stood, it appeared as though a towering black wave had suddenly erupted from the very ground itself. Later on, Sherlock would explain that his taking flight was the signal for the special envoy of hundreds of large, black winged volunteers to execute the agreed on aerial formation.

The panicked crowds in the harbor scattered like ants at this onslaught, although when they realised the living cloud was not interested in them, they hid behind doors and buildings, peeking out eagerly at a sight that very few would ever see in their lifetime again.

A milennia of instinct had taken over it would seem as the hundreds of flyers all converged behind a single leader; darkening the sky in the habour with their huge pure black wings, as they circled Shan's ship in a tight funnel like formation.

Quickly pulling himself together, John realised that this was Sherlock's idea of an appropriate distraction, and the doctor grabbed Aya and threw her into the air. The resultant air currents in the human made vortex were so strong, that she was instantly swept upwards, far higher than she would have managed on her own.

The cloud began to move away almost immediately.

It was over.

Breathing heavily from the rush of adrenaline, John glanced down at his once formidable opponent, who was on the floor scrunched in a shaking ball with her arms over her head. Normally John would rush to aid anyone who looked so afraid, but his store of niceness was thoroughly used up, thank you very much.

He doubted very much that General Shan or anyone else would ever dare try to kidnap one of his kind again, not with that display of "force" they just had.

'M' tired', the doctor murmured closing his eyes, not even needing to turn around to know it was Sherlock's arms that were around him, 'don't let me fall, okay?' When next John opened his eyes again, the ocean with its occasional white capped waves, was far below them. After almost two weeks of being held against his will, he was free and he was flying.

He didn't have the words.

'That was completely BRILLIANT! John roared suddenly, almost causing the detective to lose his grip and drop him.

'Sorry,' the doctor apologised sheepishly. 'Did I say that out loud?'

'It's fine,' Sherlock replied, smiling softly.


	18. So what's the story?

Chapter 18-**So what's the story?**

It was more comfortable as they flew, to just rest his head against Sherlock's shoulder. In that way, John could easily keep track of their new dark winged friends in the distance, without straining his neck. So it didn't take the doctor too long to realize that they were steadily falling behind.

Concerned he quickly raised his head, and sure enough Sherlock had stopped flying and was instead drifting from one air current to the next.

'Should we land?' John inquired as he looked around them. Green land and blue misty mountains could be seen, but they were still a considerable way off. 'I am sorry, I must be heavy. Are you very tired?'

Sherlock smiled faintly, still thoroughly confused and taken off guard by John's caring for him.

'You can never be too heavy,' the detective corrected him quietly, 'but you have put on weight; four pounds to be exact; muscle though not fat. Change in diet?'

'Yeah,' John replied darkly, remembering the reason why his wing were so thick and full now.

'John?' Sherlock began hesitantly, 'your friend Murray...'

John closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the man's shoulder again. 'I know. Shan told me. Did you find the body?'

'Yes. They left it behind in London.'

'Autopsy?

'Myocardial infarction.'

John nodded sadly. 'He was closing in on seventy. The change in food must have done him in. Did I miss the funeral?'

'The body was shipped back to Australia about a week ago.'

Involuntarily, Sherlock's hands tightened its grip on John's legs. The consulting detective had cornered his pathologist friend at St. Bart's, and pleaded with her to modify the autopsy report. John didn't need to know how his friend's body was mutilated post mortem. What was the point of both of them having nightmares?

'I am so deeply sorry for your loss,' Sherlock offered.

'Thanks,' John said softly,'there's no way to get Shan now, is there?'

'I wouldn't worry about her,' Sherlock rumbled, 'Failure is not an option for the people she works for.'

'Good,' John said with a hard smile. 'Live by the sword, die by the sword, then?'

'Exactly.'

The two reunited friends flew in satisfied silence for awhile, before John's curiosity peaked again.

'So how did you find me?'

The doctor listened in astonishment at Sherlock's matter of fact account, of how he had pieced together the story using the chemical analysis of the sedative together with the DNA typing.

'That was amazing,' John breathed in awe.

'Hardly!' Sherlock snorted with no false modesty, 'I've done better work, and I did not even manage to decode the spray printed ciphers!'

'Have you ever thought of doing this for private hire?' the small man interjected eagerly.

Sherlock gave him a penetrating look of disbelief. 'I do _not_ find missing pets, John.'

'Don't be a berk,' the man scolded him lightly, 'you don't think the Yard gets all the juicy ones, do you? Murder is just murder at the end of the day. How challenging can that be after awhile? But who knows what fascinating centuries old family puzzle can be lurking in some quiet leafy hamlet in Devonshire. We should take clients!'

John knew he had him from the way Sherlock's eyes gleamed fanatically.

'We?' Sherlock said sharply coming back to reality,'you're going to help...me?'

'You say that like its news,' John replied in a flippant manner that made the detective grin, 'First things first, we are going to have to fix up that website.'

Sherlock's thick eyebrows furrowed together, 'What? What is wrong with my website?!'

'Well um,' John hedged, not sure if the man was being serious or not, 'it's a little ...dry.'

'Dry? ' the other man repeated with a forbidding scowl, 'I don't know what you mean.'

The doctor skewed him with a you-cant-be-serious look. Two hundred and forty three types of tobacco ash? Really?

'I of course welcome your input,' Sherlock lied shamelessly as he was sometimes wont to do when he wanted to get his way.

John was all smiles now, and Sherlock felt quite justified in his deception.

The young men were distracted from their comfortable talk, as a pod of whales breached the surface of the water below, enjoying the bright sunny day as they waggled their huge fins and flopped energetically on their backs with gigantic splashes. John sighed happily, enjoying the perfect moment of peace and freedom along with the huge marine mammals.

'So what's the story there?' the doctor then wanted to know as he gestured at the dark living cloud ahead of them. 'Completely brilliant by the way. I wouldn't be surprised if that goes viral on the youtube by the time we land.'

'Not likely,' Sherlock countered, 'it is an illegal port, after all.'

John hummed absently in agreement as the other man collected his thoughts.

'You gave me the idea you know, with your headbook page,' the detective remarked.

'Facebook.'

'What?'

'It's called Facebook, not headbook. Never mind, just continue,' John urged.

'I used the social media thing and I put out a call looking for anyone else like me in England,' Sherlock explained. 'Several people answered, most of them in the military and all of them interested, once I told them I was going to get you back. Mycroft became involved trying to obtain official permission for them to participate in a civilian matter. He took it right up to the Queen to smooth out the rough spots.'

'The Queen?!' John cried out, completely flustered. 'Our Queen?! Lord, love a duck!'

'Yes John, the queen, our queen. Why are you so shocked?' Sherlock remarked blandly. 'She became interested in the matter on a personal level and contacted other European governments, and then even more people signed up to assist. It was quite astonishing, to be honest. We have Germany and Australia of course, some Swiss, Spain, France; a whole truckload from Ethiopia, even the Pope has lent us some of his guards. We've had an exceedingly hard time keeping this quiet and out of the papers. Thereabouts we got a tip off in South Africa that you were on a boat, and we have been shadowing you ever since on the HMS Ocean.'

The detective's voice trailed off as the doctor stared at the cloud of flyers with new interest.

'Look at me, John.'

Surprised at the man's anguished tone of voice, he immediately turned his head.

'It wasn't only about getting you back,' Sherlock explained agitatedly. 'It was about ensuring that she didn't try to kidnap you again, and to prevent it from happening to any one else. I know Shan as a dealer in antiquities would know the old stories about the so called 'dark ones' and I knew you would have the fortitude to bear the captivity for a while. I was waiting for the right moment to spring open this theatrical performance. My actions were carefully planned.'

Sherlock cleared his throat anxiously. 'Was I wrong? Do you…hate me, for exposing you to such prolonged danger?'

'I have to admit that I was at an all time low, when we were anchored in port,' John replied. 'They tried to take Aya from me, and I was ready to take us both over the side at that point. Better to be dead rather than submit to whatever was in store for us; especially for her.'

John smiled reassuringly, as Sherlock moaned in a distressed manner. 'None of that now! You came, that's all that matters and I don't hate you. In fact, I am flattered by your faith in my strength. Nice not be treated like a fragile invalid. I mean, I still have lots to offer! We're okay, Sherlock.'

'Thank you, John,' the younger man replied after awhile, relieved and happy to hear this confirmation that he still had the man's good favour. Sherlock began flying again, and they shot forward.

'But who says that you don't have anything to offer? I don't understand that!' Sherlock inquired with a scowl of confusion, looking quite ready to hunt down the stupid bastards and murder them for uttering such falsehoods.

John grinned. Sherlock really was a special find.

'Do you think that you can ask your colleagues for some feathers?' the doctor then asked in turn, his professional nature come to the fore. 'Just look at the sample set we have. We could submit the tissues to a university for phylogenetic analysis and then who knows. We could do up a whole tree to explain your black winged mutation.'

Sherlock looked completely stunned at the idea of such a fascinating experiment, right under his nose all this time. 'How fabulous! Why didn't I think of that?'

'Because you're an idiot,' John shot back cheekily, echoing Sherlock's earlier words to him. The detective frowned with an angry pout, still not accustomed to any sort of teasing at all.

'Well, you had a lot on your mind,' John corrected, struggling to stop smiling at the man's childish expression. 'I think I have a colleague who has developed some microsatellite markers for this type of analysis.'

'Microsatellites?' Sherlock sneered, 'Microsatellites are for dilettantes and two year olds! It would be impossible to know if there was a backward mutation!'

'I thought you were a chemist?' John asked conversationally.

'I am. I have a pathologist colleague. She likes this sort of research.'

'She?' John waggled his eyebrows playfully, curious to know more about this very smart female co-worker that Sherlock knew, 'tell me all!'

The detective rolled his eyes irritably, 'for God's sake, John. You don't like it when people label us as a couple, so I beg you to give Molly and I the same courtesy. I would think you of all people would understand.'

John felt immediately contrite under Sherlock's heated rebuke. 'You are right. I apologise.'

Sherlock glanced at him sideways. He wasn't used to anyone apologizing to him. Was he supposed to say thank you, now?

'You are very easy to talk to,' the detective blurted out feelingly, 'I like that abut you.'

All in all, this was a little too much emotion for two British men to experience on top of being in such close physical quarters and as such, they flew in stoic silence for awhile to catch their bearings.

Eventually John realised that the "Queen's contingent" for want of a better description, were descending but in quite a strange manner. He stared in fascination as they poured down out of the sky, as though some heavenly being had kicked over a gigantic bucket of black paint on its side.

'What are they doing, now!?' he cried in alarm.

'We all have to land within Germany borders,' Sherlock explained rather vaguely.

'Hang on Sherl. I thought we are off the coast of China.'

'We are!'

John stared curiously at the huge drawing of X marks the spot, on the ground far below, as Sherlock eased them in a vertical position. Automatically, the doctor grabbed hold of the man's upper arms, while Sherlock encircled his waist firmly and spread his dark wings wide to slow their descent.

'I wouldn't be surprised if the Queen appoints you an entire flock of bodyguards,' Sherlock said suddenly out of the blue, distracting the doctor from their landing. 'I am not entirely sure how this idea of us taking on private clients will actually work in that event.'

'What?'

'I didn't know you were the only white winged human in England,' Sherlock replied with a snort of brittle laughter. 'I will probably need a visitor's ticket to see you from now on.'

Sherlock averted his eyes, clearly distressed and John couldn't help but smile at this bit of charming vulnerability from the normally sharp tongued detective. 'That's not going to happen, Sherlock.'

'It might,' he countered obstinately in a quiet voice.

'Well, it's not,' John remarked just as stubbornly.

Sherlock gave him a gentle squeeze, but said nothing further as they landed. It was then that John caught sight of the German flag snapping in the strong breeze, and he finally understood what Sherlock meant about landing within German borders.

The noise and energy was incredible in the embassy grounds.

The whole group were in their glee; chest bumping like teenagers, laughing manically, shoving each other and generally riding on the adrenaline high of the moment. Some of them busied themselves in removing the decorative barrier between the German and Swiss consulate, so as to get more room for them all to stand. Others were making funny faces at the Chinese soldiers through the wire, who were understandably not at all pleased by the presence of so many foreigners in their midst.

In the meantime, John was quickly swept along by officials into a medical tent to be checked out. His impressions as he struggled along were of plentiful movement, happy voices, and a lot of tall and or big black objects blocking his path.

However, since the doctor didn't know what strange, depressing ideas Sherlock had running around in his hyper active brain that were making him so suddenly quiet and sour, he kept a firm grip on his friend's hand to prevent them for being separated in the thick crowd.

'It's going to be fine!' John shouted over all the noise back at him.

Sherlock nodded as he curled his large wing around the doctor, to prevent him from being knocked about.


	19. Private property part 1

**Flashback**: _Sherlock gave him a gentle squeeze, but said nothing further as they landed. It was then that John caught sight of the German flag snapping in the strong breeze, and he finally understood what Sherlock meant about landing within German borders._

Chapter 19- **Private property part 1**

_A movie star is hugging me. _

'Uhhh,' was all John however was able to verbally manage as the tall, blonde woman tightened her grip on his neck and sobbed a stream of German into his ears. He didn't make out much except thank you in the garbled assault.

John held on to Aya's mother gingerly. 'It's okay miss. Everything is going to be alright. Quietly now, don't cry anymore.'

The doctor patted her back consoling as he glanced around the makeshift medical area. He grinned in relief at seeing Aya sitting on an examination table, chattering to her doctor at warped speed in her native language. Of course, John didn't have a clue what the little girl was saying but her father, who was seated in a nearby chair, leaned over with his head between his knees, and his light brown feathers all poufed up and sticking out at crazy angles behind him.

'Onkel,' she cried out softly, as she jumped off the bed and ran to him with open arms. Aya's mother let him go so John could scoop her up and hug his former cell mate tightly to him.

'Mein house, Onkel,' Aya then announced happily if not inaccurately, as she pointed first to her mom and then her dad.

John understood her though. A real home really wasn't a building of stone and brick, it was the people who everyday sheltered your heart, mind and body.

A slow smile spread across John's face.

'My house,' John repeated solemnly, turning and pointing in Sherlock's direction. Aya smiled and waved to the detective, while Sherlock stood there with a stunned stupid look on his face, his wings half way folded in as he froze on the spot. In silence he contemplated the smaller man who looked at him steadily. John words were probably the nicest anyone had ever said to him.

The detective recovered enough from his astonishment, to give John and Aya a discreet boost so they could reach the high examination table. Finally, he retreated into the dark corner with a lost look, studying the grass carpet at his feet as though it held the answer to the meaning of life.

Mycroft, who was present to help with translation (and to check on his little brother) had followed the little exchange with interest. However, he shook his head at John, warning him to tone it down a bit. He knew that Sherlock was subconsciously worried that now that his ribs were healed, and the case more or less over, that John wouldn't have any use for a consulting detective in his life. Mycroft didn't want to see his brother hurt, if John did decide that all of this madness wasn't for him, and dropped their friendship abruptly.

With a sigh the older man joined his brother in the corner, and in a low voice began lecturing to Sherlock's bent head.

In the meantime, several nurses came in to take tests and assist the doctors. Aya was being very co-operative now as she sat next to her favorite uncle and mimicked everything that he did. When John stuck out his tongue, she did too and when he took in a deep breath, she sucked in a great gulp and held it until her face turned red. She giggled and swung her small legs energetically when they received matching Walt Disney, Tinkerbell band-aids on their arms, after the nurse took some blood from them.

The doctors on staff were of course worried about stress and delayed shock of their patients. As such the medical team were seriously considering giving John and Aya something to help them to sleep, which was going to be difficult enough with all the boisterous racket going on outside. John advised them to hold their hand with regards any medication. Aya had proven to be extremely resilient during captivity, and she didn't have any trouble sleeping once he was close by.

For himself, John didn't anticipate having any trouble. Now that he knew Sherlock would look out and ensure that all was well, he could drop the hyper vigilant state he had had to maintain for so long.

A specialist came in then to examine their wings. Obediently, Aya opened and closed hers as directed and then it was John's turn.

All the while John was keeping an eye on his friend in the corner. Whatever Mycroft was saying was clearly having no effect, as Sherlock shook his head repeatedly. However, John wanted to check on the man's old injuries, just to see if he had re-aggravated the damage to his rib cage by flying so far. Should he interrupt?

With Aya tucked in tightly against his side though, John was beginning to feel very warm and comfortable, as the specialist took his time to minutely examine his wings. John's head soon began to swim with exhaustion and without much effort, his eyes slid close. He couldn't be sure if he dozed of for a few seconds or half and hour but when he jerked awake, Sherlock wasn't in the corner.

It was therefore indeed unfortunate that they had him hooked up to a wide array of monitoring equipment, as all of John's life signs shot through the roof, tripping off the maximum level alarms simultaneously. The shriek of the bells clanged loudly through the confines of the tent facility, startling everyone, including the ex-army doctor who was hooked up to the machines.

Sherlock burst through the opening, almost tripping spectacularly over a chair.

'Why did you just leave like that!' John shouted at him, 'Who does that?!'

The detective didn't reply as he panted and gripped his side hard, clearly having sprinted all the way from wherever he had been before the alarms sounded.

'Were you in the men's room?' John asked agitatedly, trying desperately to pull back and regain his composure.

Panicked Sherlock nodded his head, but he took a fraction of a second too long.

'Oh my god, you're lying to me! What the bloody hell is your problem?' the doctor growled in frustration, as he pressed his hands to his face. 'Look, it's fine. Just go if you want, alright. Take a breather, get some air. It's all fine.'

'Dr. Watson please calm down,' one of the nurses begged softly.

'I AM CALM!' John shouted at her. He didn't know why he was yelling at the poor woman. She hadn't done anything wrong. Why was he so out of control? Sherlock hadn't been far, and he had come back when he had heard the alarms. Sherlock wasn't his private property for crying out loud! Maybe he_ did_ need an injection of something to calm down.

One of the doctors appeared to be thinking the same thing as he readied a syringe.

'WHAT THE HELL IS THAT!?' Sherlock bawled out at the top of his lungs, and the unfortunate man fell over as the detective slapped the needle out of his hand. The surprised doctor scrabbled backwards terrified, as Sherlock slowly stalked him across the room. Menacingly, the suddenly enraged detective opened his wings high and wide, shrinking and darkening the space in the tent, like Death itself decided to make an appearance.

'Sherlock!' John cried out in warning as a group of solider type persons bounded in, alerted by all the noise. Quickly they surrounded the young Englishman, waving wicked looking night sticks at Sherlock.

Naturally everyone started shouting which generally added to all the confusion, but Aya bravely weaved around the adults and dashed forward to hang on to one of Sherlock's legs. She didn't want anyone to hurt her new playmate who was part of Uncle John's family.

'Mine!' she said with a pout, shaking her head as her father beckoned for her to come to him. 'Mine!'

Of course, having a trembling little girl clinging to your thigh was enough to cool anyone's anger and Sherlock quickly snapped back to his senses; lowering his wings from their attack posture. Awkwardly he patted the little girl's shoulder, and wiped away the tears from off her upturned face with the back of his hand.

Slowly everyone started to relax, and John began breathing again. Some of the winged men outside who had been attracted by all the loud shouting, peeked through the little cut out windows in the tent, and they in turn began to pass the word behind to the anxious group who crowded around in a thick circle of black rustling feathers.

'Sherlock, come sit here,' John said in his normal voice, 'It's alright.'

The detective sat down on a low stool near John's bed, and he scowled about him with an unfriendly look, daring anyone to challenge him for the seat. In the meantime, Aya clambered onto his lap and wrapped her small wings protectively across his chest; determined to keep him safe it would seem. In turn Sherlock folded his wings over her, and dropped a soft kiss on the top of her head.

'Sorry I shouted,' John mumbled in embarrassment, 'I am okay now. What were you doing?'

The detective averted his eyes in a shifty manner, making John's tummy twist uncomfortably. With a low growl, the ex-army doctor then glared in annoyance as his monitors began increasing in volume again, and he irritably yanked out all the diodes from off his arm and chest.

Everyone in the tent didn't really need to know their private business!

TBC


	20. Private property part 2

**ANote**: A little disclaimer for this chapter. Even though Sherlock is admiring John in the nude, it's still a friendship story, so you don't need to send me a message to check. You can if you want, but it is not necessary.

Chapter 20- **Private property part 2 **

Sherlock took John's bundle of discarded medical wires and diodes, and began fidgeting with it absently in his thin long fingers.

Bemused by such an obvious act of avoidance, John raised an eyebrow as he stared at Sherlock's bent head, wondering exactly what the other man was thinking. The detective normally blurted out his every thought which usually pissed off the entire room, not that Sherlock cared. This silence was unexpected.

The good doctor leaned over and placed his hand on the man's shoulder, smiling encouragingly when the young man finally lifted his head. Sherlock's face, now just inches from his own was blank as he stared up at him from his low seat, but emotion roiled in his slanted eyes. John frowned as he saw the uncertainty, worry and frustration dimming the twin electric blue circles.

'It will be alright,' John insisted in a whisper.

'You can't possibly know that for sure,' Sherlock whispered back.

'Sherlock,' John said in exasperation, 'I was just rescued by a funnel shaped cloud of Winged humans. I don't believe in the impossible anymore and neither should you.'

Sherlock gave him a small lopsided grin, as John patted his shoulder.

A smiling male orderly came in unexpectedly then, his arms piled high with a huge stack of fluffy towels, toilet items and warm looking sleepwear. However, the nurse stopped abruptly, surprised and alarmed to see so many people packed into the small space, staring back at him.

'I came to assist Dr. Watson with a bath,' he said with a uncertain stammer. Immediately Sherlock stood up with Aya in his arms, and snatched the items from him.

'I will do it,' Sherlock snapped rudely at the orderly, 'go away!'

Of course Aya wanted to accompany John and Sherlock, and she turned to the young men with pleading eyes as she clung tightly to the detective's neck.

Fortunately, her mother came up to collect her and the detective was able to make the transfer, leaving it up to the woman to explain the complicated mechanics of why little girls couldn't go shower with their "uncles".

Sherlock however was so wrapped up in his own private thoughts, that he only belatedly realised how quiet John had become, as they slowly strolled side by side along the corridors in the main part of the embassy. It was quiet as a tomb in here, since most of the staff were trying their best to babysit the loud, happy bunch outside with sandwiches, biscuits and juice boxes. As before, Sherlock noted how restful John's company was when he needed to think. It was indeed a pleasure to be enjoying this aspect of their relationship again .

'Her majesty wanted to speak to me on the telephone,' Sherlock explained as they walked into the large communal showering area designated for men, 'that is why I wasn't there when you awoke.'

'Oh,' John replied faintly, shocked by the detective's casual pronouncement, as if he talked to royalty everyday and twice on Sundays. 'How is she?'

Sherlock frowned in genuine confusion. 'I really could not say. Should I call her back and ask?'

'No no,' John hastened to tack on. 'Did you tell her that we are all okay?'

'Yes,' Sherlock replied, 'she wants you to come to the palace.'

'Me?!' John yelped, and his heart beat started to raise accordingly, 'Jesus! What day does she want me?'

'As soon as you set foot in England, apparently,' Sherlock griped sourly under his breath.

'I _have_ to go and thank her,' John insisted as he companionably hugged the man across his shoulder, finally grasping how deeply concerned Sherlock was that something else was going to happen, and they would be separated again.

As he stripped off his clothes, John groped around in the corners of his imagination, trying to find the right words to reassure Sherlock that this wasn't going to happen. He was a private citizen now, honorably discharged because of his injuries and years of service. Her majesty could only request his presence. Granted as a British citizen, he would never dream of refusing the invitation. John wasn't sure what Sherlock thought was going to happen at this meeting, but he wasn't worried. Whatever they faced now on English soil, they would face it together.

In the meantime, John turned the shower knobs to set the temperate, and with a groan of pleasure he stepped under the spray. For a long moment he let the hot water roll over his shoulders, before turning back to get the soap that Sherlock was carrying.

'Oh sorry,' John apologized with a grin of embarrassment, as he observed how quickly Sherlock averted his gaze to afford him some privacy. 'I was in the army too long.'

The doctor searched around for a shower curtain but there was none. However when he turned back to his friend, Sherlock had lifted his eyes and was now looking at him quiet unperturbed. 'I understand that it is the social norm not to stare at someone in the shower.'

John shrugged.'I suppose, but _please_ don't make this a habit of doing what is socially acceptable. How will I ever find you in a crowd, if you do that?'

Sherlock paused momentarily confused, before grinning appreciatively at the man's teasing smile. He wasn't used to anyone playing with him. His sharp tongue had earned him a infamous reputation, and the list of people who willingly engaged him in conversation literally could be counted on one hand.

Feeling a little more relaxed now in this decidedly domestic setting, Sherlock leaned against the tiles and assisted his friend with his shower, handing him the small bottles of shampoo and soap as directed, and holding up a mirror so John could shave with the disposable razor provided. The tables were turned and now it was he that was taking care of the doctor.

Sherlock hoped he was doing a good job.

John had been so unbelievably patient during the long painful days of his own recovery, never complaining when Sherlock whined for him to fetch cups of hot cocoa, the remote control or his yellow rubber ducky at bath time. With just the two of them in here, it really did seem that everything would be alright.

'Okay, your turn,' John announced as he held out a hand for a towel.

Instead, the detective reached out and pulled John fully under the water.

'Sherlock!,' the man whined in annoyance,'I didn't want to get my feathers wet. I am exhausted. Do you know how long this will take to dry?!'

'Look down,' was the suggestion.

John looked automatically, and was startled by the puddle of black grimy water swirling around his feet.

Sherlock turned him around and with gentle smooth motions, he cleansed a handful of feathers at a time; letting the heavy spray of the water rinse away the dark days of captivity. Soon, the brilliant white of the man's wings began to shine through again in all its astonishing beauty. Indeed, Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath as John suddenly spread his wings wide, causing the harsh fluorescent light overhead to be captured in the water droplets, making it appear as though thousands of sparkling diamonds were sown into each individual feather. John didn't have a solider's physique anymore, but his muscle development was still there to the point that at this precise moment, he very much looked liked he stepped out of one of those spectacular nude paintings that hung in the Louvre.

Sherlock lips turned down in a frown even as he struggled to keep his face neutral. There was a black part of his soul that he couldn't quite silence, which wished most fervently that John _didn't_ have these wings at all. Life would be so much simpler if John wasn't so special. Mycroft said he should be prepared to share but why should he?! He didn't want to and he bloody hell wasn't going to!

John sighed when he turned around, and observed the tight look around the man's eyes had returned.

'Sherl, I know you are worried about tomorrow and the day after that,' he said quietly. 'But I am here now and I think it would be pretty fantastic if you would spend out this day with me.'

The detective handed him a towel, 'I think that is a good idea.'

John wrapped the towel around his hips and the men switched places in the shower. Patiently, Sherlock stood still while John minutely examined his ribs, before giving his nod of approval. The consulting detective then turned back on the water and absently sluiced off the day's events from his arms and legs, as John padded around the shower area, neatly gathering the clothes that Sherlock had discarded in an untidy heap. Curiously, Sherlock stared as John then dragged one of those utilitarian plastic chairs to the side of the room, before proceeding to straddle the seat and spread his wings open. The detective jumped slightly, when the motion sensitive hand dryers clicked on loudly, one after the other.

Sherlock gawked, very impressed by the man's ingenuity and practicality. John was quite clever in his own way.

By the time Sherlock had dried off and was dressed in a clean track suit, John had naturally dozed off again, lulled by the heat and the gentle roar of the dryers over him. Just as the detective was wondering if to wake him, Mycroft strode in with a pinched unhappy look.

'Doctor!' the government agent called startling the man to full awareness. 'You must come now.'

John looked around blearily, 'huh? Did we solve the case? What's wrong?'

Sherlock grinned broadly very pleased at John's sleepy mumble. He thought about cases in his sleep too! How fabulous!

'Besides my brother hanging up the telephone on her majesty, you mean?' the older man sneered unhappily as he massaged his temples.

'I didn't hang up on her,' Sherlock snapped, 'I told her I had to go and I put down the phone. Give me some credit, Mycroft.'

Mycroft was extremely displeased when instead of joining him in berating Sherlock, John snorted and started to giggle madly.

'Please John,' the man begged in anxious tones, 'don't encourage him. Come, there is another situation developing.'

By the time they all made it back into the medical tent, it was clear that things had changed and not for the good. Their new black winged friends outside were certainly displeased about something, and were making their feelings known.

'What's going on?' John yelled to be heard over the loud flapping and rustling all about him. Aya looked up at the ceiling from her father's arms, where she was wrapped in a cottony cocoon of lavender towels.

'This began when you and Aya left to bathe!' Mycroft shouted in reply, 'I explained where you were but I don't think they were convinced.'

The head of the German embassy guards hurried up to them and they huddled in a circle so they wouldn't have to shout. 'Sir, maybe you should go outside and wave at them.'

'Why would I do that?' John cried out, his natural humility causing him to cringe inwards, horrified by such an idea.

'We all read the dossiers that your government provided,' the man continued quickly, not at all picking up that John didn't like where this conversation was going, 'it says that you can control them.'

'That is such rubbish!' John insisted, feeling himself flush hot and cold in his annoyance. 'It's just a story. No one can do that! Never repeat such blatant stupidity in my hearing again!'

'So how do you explain him?' the man insisted belligerently, pointing in Sherlock's direction, 'he follows you around like a puppy.'

Sherlock stared at the man impassively, spectacularly unimpressed as he always tended to be by other people's poor opinion of him.

However, John was not so unaffected as he came right up into the guard's face. 'That is because what I have to say is worth hearing, and if you are really interested in keeping that finger, I suggest that you point it in another direction.'

In the end, Sherlock had been forced to hook an arm across John's waist and pull him away by force.

Aya on the other hand, thought her new playmates outside were very funny as they gleefully shoved each other out of the way, so that they could peer at her through the small square windows in the tent. At the moment a large black man was looking at her, and his happy smile was a slash of white in his dark face.

Aya wagged an admonishing finger at him, and then pressed the finger to her lips in the universally accepted gesture for silence.

The man outside immediately turned to his neighbor and shushed him loudly, as if astounded that his colleague could be making such a god awful racket. John's jaw dropped open as a loud shush grew about them in an ever increasing volume, before tapering off into the type of silence where you could hear yourself breathing.

The little girl bounced excitedly in her father's arms, as John and Sherlock exchanged an incredulous glance.

'Well, that was different,' Mycroft drawled in a bored voice.


	21. The petition

_Flashback: Aya wagged an admonishing finger at them, and then pressed the finger to her lips in the universally accepted gesture for silence. John's jaw dropped open as a loud shush grew about them in an ever increasing volume, before tapering off into the type of silence where you could hear yourself breathing_.

Chapter 21- **The petition**

Everyone inside had naturally gravitated to the entrance of the tent to investigate the unnatural silence, but Sherlock wasn't surprised when the ex-army doctor took him by his arm, and drew him into a quiet corner.

The half incredulous, half horrified manner in which John had looked at him as the eerie quiet descended all around them, had said it all.

Fortunately though, Sherlock could truthfully look John in his face and categorically state that he had never done anything that made him uncomfortable during the month long span of their friendship. Apparently, being forced to give up his beloved cigarettes, didn't make the list of behaviours which John was contemplating.

(Pity).

Eventually, John abandoned his questions and just stared at him in a somber, anxious fashion with all his feathers starting to lightly puff around him in a wide semicircle, reflecting his unsettled state of mind. Mycroft wasn't helping matters at all by hovering in an aggressive manner, as though afraid to leave his brother alone with the doctor.

The most logical step now, was to carry out some sort of experiment to try and get repeatable observations. Sherlock was therefore surprised when John turned white as a sheet, and Mycroft immediately shot down the suggestion.

'Absolutely not!' Mycroft had cried out.

'John, won't hurt me,' Sherlock had declared with a ugly sneer in his brother's direction, to which the ex-army doctor had demonstrated his thanks with a watery smile.

It was true that he wasn't exactly his usual waspish self around John but that wasn't necessarily a strange thing, was it? With his above average intelligence, and hunger for new experiences, ideas and adventures, John just didn't aggravate him as much as the others say like the narrow minded Anderson and even on occasion, the much too slow Lestrade. And really, how could his starved spirit not be drawn to someone who _insisted_ that he was brilliant at least twice a day?

In the meantime, at the medical team's request , John returned to bed but disturbingly the man chose to roll over and turn his back on the entire room.

It was a dreadful moment, and everyone glanced pityingly at Sherlock as the tall Englishman stood there upset and silent, all alone in the middle of the medical tent.

One of the embassy guards handed John a pack of playing cards and after several minutes, Sherlock crept a little closer. He was relieved when his friend turned to face him, and Sherlock dragged up a chair to the side of the bed.

'You sure you want to come so close?' John muttered despairingly as he pillowed his cheek under one hand.

It was with difficulty that Sherlock restrained from rolling his eyes. 'you are not controlling me, John.'

'How can you be so sure?'

'Well I can't, seeing that you don't want to experiment,' he said sourly, 'but your memory is strangely patchy, today.'

'Is it?' John said wistfully as if ready to grab hold of any glimmer of hope that Sherlock offered. The detective saw the look and began to relax.

John wanted evidence?

Ha!

That was his specialty.

'Recall,' Sherlock said pompously, as he counted on his fingers. 'I refused to grant your request to repay me for a new suit of clothes at the hospital...

John raised an eyebrow.

'...I would not be dissuaded, when you pleaded with me not to be part of the operation to draw out the smugglers at my house in the country...

...I refused to come down from my flying when you called for me...

Your attempts to increase my nutrition intake while I was ill, although admirable and appreciated...'

John raised a hand to cut him off. There was a reluctant smile hovering around his lips, and the lively gleam had returned to his kind blue eyes. In the midst of the kidnap and rescue and all of that, John had definitely pushed these more annoying memories to one side.

The doctor wasn't wholly convinced, but felt reasonably reassured to deal Sherlock a companionably game of poker, as if the incident of Aya had never happen, and that 500 hundred or so men outside, were not now quietly sitting on the lawn resting or softly chatting to each other.

Sherlock wasn't complaining as he re-arranged his hand of cards. Anymore of these emotional scenes, could cause him to max out his quota of allowed sentiment for the week.

It was possible that their new dark winged friends just _liked_ Aya, which would explain their eagerness to follow her instructions.

The story of her tremendous courage and resilience under fire, had spread through the Winged contingent, first in German and then rapidly translated into every other language there. In spite all that she had seen and experienced though, the sweetness of her sunshiny spirit still shone through as she smiled and waved tirelessly at each new face that peered at her from the window, as if she was greeting long lost friends rather than strangers.

Even Sherlock, who had no interest in children whatsoever because they were boring and smelly, felt a corner of his heart soften when the small girl had finally fallen asleep, nose to nose with her mother in a cot not too far from John. Mother and daughter were like two peas in a pod, except for the wings of course.

Now as far as Sherlock could remember, he was sitting in one of the low camp chairs, peacefully observing John and Aya rest. So he couldn't understand why in his next coherent moment, he was laying flat on his back with an IV in his arm, and a note taped to his front.

With a scowl, he ripped the paper off his chest and quickly scanned through the message.

_I will give you a bar of dark chocolate if you keep your IV line in. It is not medicine, it is vitamins- John_

Sherlock sat up carefully then and quickly noted the diminished activity all around. There was one duty nurse in the corner but other than that, it was just John on his bed and Aya on another with her mother. A flash of movement on the left, caught his eye.

Aya's father was sitting in a dim corner off the side, waving a coffee pot invitingly at him.

Sherlock glared at his IV anew and was sorely tempted to make a face at, but he kept his mind focused on the promised sugary reward as he gingerly rolled off the bed, and wheeled his IV pole alongside him.

All things considered, he was feeling much better now than he had been for the last couple of days, even though both his arms trembled sporadically; strained from the long flight carrying a man of John's weight to safety.

Mr. Mueller obligingly pulled up another canvas camp chair for him to sit.

'It is seven less fifteen in time,' the man offered in halting English. The man was pleased when Sherlock answered him in flawless German.

'Are you feeling any better?' the older man asked kindly, relaxing back into his seat.

'Why? Was I sick?' Sherlock asked in surprise.

Aya's father smiled in a friendly way as he handed over a steaming up of new coffee, watching in amusement as Sherlock dumped in a gallon of sugar in his Styrofoam cup.

'You fell off your chair,' he replied.

It had taken everyone by surprise. Sherlock was dozing with his head back, thin hands folded neatly on his stomach and his long legs sprawled comically in front of him, when he had started titling to the side. If John hadn't woken up then and jumped in, Sherlock would have most certainly cracked his head on the ground. The ex-army doctor had effortlessly scooped Sherlock up in his arms and carried him over to an empty cot after which, he frowned darkly as he used some of the medical instruments and took readings.

'I am glad that you are awake though, because I need to talk to you,' Mr Muller said, 'Can you manage it?'

Curiously, Sherlock nodded as he stared at the clipboard in the man's hands. The father handed it over so the detective could have a look.

Sherlock flipped through the pages. 'It is a petition.'

'Yes, it is,' the man said tightly, 'your Queen has offered her aircraft carrier to relocate your "colleagues" in one large group, rather than hazard a series of small military flights, but they want Aya to come with them at least part of the way so they can get to know her better.'

Sherlock glanced at the man's distressed face.

'What do you want me to do about it?' he felt right in asking.

Aya's father sighed and slumped over. 'Don't get me wrong, I am very grateful to you and everyone's help in getting my daughter back, but where are we really going with this? If Aya falls on the playground, are these fellows going to swoop down like Batman on her position. What sort of life is that for my baby to have? Truthfully, I just want to take a plane and my family, and go home and start putting this whole incident behind me. This petition has really blinded sided me!'

Sherlock just nodded, as he glanced around the tent vaguely, searching for inspiration. This really wasn't his area. What was he supposed to say?

'And I really think with John volunteering to come to Germany for a fortnight, my Aya would be able to find her feet again in no time at all,' the father tacked on. 'She's doing so well, isn't she?!'

Mr. Mueller was so wrapped up in his contemplation of his sleeping daughter that he didn't immediately notice Sherlock, visibly wilting at his side. When the man finally returned to his coffee companion, the detective was glaring at him with a hateful expression.

'It's a nice room, with a big window so you can fly in and out!' Mr. Mueller said coaxingly, distressed that Sherlock wasn't more open to the idea of a visit.

Sherlock's wings snapped open so fast, the sharp gust generated knocked over several items, 'I am invited?!'

Aya's father fought his instinctive reaction to cringe as Sherlock's dark wings fluttered around and over him. Mr. Mueller had watched the contingent from a distance, and in his head he knew how big they got, but he had never been so close to one before. Sherlock easily out-spanned him by a metre! He could easily believe now all those stories about how frightening they appeared in their past role of protectors, "blocking all light" as he read in one colorful description. Although to the German man, the bunch outside seemed more playful and loud, than menacing and fierce.

In the meantime, the clatter of falling cups and pens, had unfortunately awoken one of the sleepers. Aya rubbed her eyes vigorously with one small fist and glared at them with a grouchy look. The two men watched as the little girl marched over to John's bed, with her lavendar nightie trailing behind her on the ground. Like a sleepy cat, she then crawled up on to her friend's bed and burrowed under John's warm blankets.

The blanket covered lump grew quiet.

'Of course, you are invited!' Mr. Mueller said automatically, continuing their conversation. John had stated he was bringing Sherlock in such a matter of fact way, that he thought the visit was already decided between the friends. 'John said he could find a hotel since it was the two of you, but I insisted!

Sherlock wasn't listening.

He was just so pleased not to be thrown away like yesterday's newspapers, he didn't care much about anything else. Eagerly, he began sorting through the neatly stacked folders in his head, trying to pinpoint if there was anything interesting going on in that part of the world.

Best to do something useful while they were there!

Sherlock rubbed his hands excitedly, relishing this reprieve where he could enjoy John's companionship almost exclusively. In his mind's eyes he was already picturing the three of them, John, Aya and himself, going for a lovely stroll which just happened to take them in front the local constabulary.

'You've got a petition too, by the way,' the older man said quietly, interrupting Sherlock's pleasant day dream of happening upon a robbery, kidnap or perhaps a severed toe in the German streets. 'John was still asleep when it came in.'

Astonished, Sherlock took the large envelope and cracked the seal to reveal the clip board within. Mr Mueller leaned over and as he suspected, it was worded almost exactly the same as his petition.

_We the undersigned, do hereby request that you allow Dr. John Watson to travel home on board the HMS Ocean. It is our wish to become better acquainted with the doctor. With respect etc._

Sherlock immediately dumped the whole thing in a bin.

'Is that a no?' Mr Mueller asked tentatively, not needing to be a genius to deduce Sherlock's present state of mind.

The detective's feathers rattled together in annoyance.

'I think this is one of those times that anything I say is going to come out wrong,' Sherlock seethed in a low voice.


	22. Influence

**Flashback:** _Astonished, Sherlock took the large envelope and cracked the seal to reveal the clip board within. Mr Mueller leaned over and as he suspected, it was worded almost exactly the same as his petition._

_"We the undersigned, do hereby request that you allow Dr. John Watson to travel home on board the HMS Ocean. It is our wish to become better acquainted with the doctor. With respect etc."_

_Sherlock immediately dumped the whole thing in a bin._

Chapter 22- **Influence**

Breathing hard, John rolled off his bunk and sat up to one side.

He groaned as he pressed his face into his hands, willing his heartbeat to return to something more human. His arms trembled as the after effects of the nightmare coursed through his veins. Eventually, the ex-army doctor turned his head and glanced over to Sherlock's empty, unmade bunk.

The detective had not waited for him to go to the officer's mess for breakfast but John was glad. This way he was able to remove and hide evidence of his sweaty night shirt.

For a long moment, John leaned over the small sink in the corner and just stared intently at his face, as if checking to ensure that he found nothing different. After a while, he turned on the tap and brushed his teeth. His stomach was growling now but the doctor tided up their small cabin before he left, his military training too ingrained in him to leave their shared quarters a mess.

As he climbed up the steep metal ladders to the deck, the sun and sea breeze hit him full in the face, mercifully dispelling the last cobwebs of his recurring dream where Sherlock, a man who he was fast becoming to regard as his best friend, crawled away on his hand and knees choking for air, pleading with John to release his control over him.

Mycroft had found John a few days ago and the two men had fallen into an involved conversation, where they discussed the difference between control and influence. The shadowy government agent had during the course of their talk, then subtly hinted that he would be grateful if John continued to use whatever influence he had to ensure Sherlock ate, slept and stopped behaving so recklessly on a day to day basis. When Mycroft put it like that it didn't seem so bad, but John's continued nightmares were a symptom that he was still deeply concerned about it all. It was a relief to know that Mycroft was keeping a close eye on his little brother's friend so if he, John, did anything to hurt or humiliate Sherlock, the doctor knew he would be put to task.

Sherlock's supreme disbelief that he was being controlled in any fashion, helped too.

In the meantime, the small doctor breathed in deeply of the fresh salty air as he glanced around absently, knowing it would be impossible to find Sherlock in the mass of black feathers puttering around the deck or soaring up above. It was impossible but yet he still tried, wanting to reassure himself that the other man was okay.

The detective hadn't said anything, but John suspected that he knew about the nightmares.

However, Sherlock wasn't talking to him right now and while this was a bit lonely, it did give John some space to sort himself out. Sherlock didn't want to be on board the ship with all these boring people and had turned sulky and irritable, and was to put it mildly, a little brusque with him. Every night, Sherlock would loudly announce that he wasn't talking to him and then immediately shut himself tightly in his wings, so only his feet and and his curly hair could be seen.

All in all, it made for a tense living situation.

John smiled to himself as he walked along, returning the good morning greeting of the sailors as well as his new black winged acquaintances. Despite the nightmares and their stiff conversation at night, John was comforted by how his room mate stuck with him day in and day out. Even though they were privately miserably in their own heads, John would not give up Sherlock's company without a fight, and he was pleased that the detective seemed to feel the same way.

Life in the meantime, had settled into a routine ever since Mycroft had hammered out an agreement between the opposing sides, and Aya's father had conceded the field of battle for one week only. The entire Muller family was on board the ship bound for England, but would leave when the allotted time was up and fly to Germany. John would continue with the family for as long as Aya needed him, and Sherlock of course, was company.

So a typical day now for the doctor started after breakfast, where John would sit at his small station collecting the blood and feather samples for the genetic experiment, with his able bodied assistant at his side. Aya, with her careful touch, was allowed to pluck out a few feathers from each of their eager subjects and put them in a plastic Ziploc bag. Everyday they did a few, and it was a pretty good system as it was the only way for them to meet all these persons on a one on one basis.

Yesterday had been a challenge as the large group of Ethiopians came forward to give their samples. None of them could speak English, however one of them could speak French, and one of the French could speak German. It was a curious conversation as the words were translated back and forth in a relay. However, it was apparent that everyone enjoyed themselves immensely, as they all got hugs each as a reward every time Aya plucked a feather from them and they were very good and didn't cry. The process wasn't painful but it wasn't the most pleasant of feelings. Indeed, a handful of feathers pulled out roughly would be enough to make anyone drop to their knees.

After the experiment participants finished talking to Aya, they would turn to John. Their questions tended to be more of less the same.

_Do you have a wife and child?_

_No? Are you dating Mr. Holmes?_

_No? Are you sure?_

_Calmly Dr. Watson, please don't shout. Would you be interested in meeting my (insert sister, niece, friend, neighbour, butcher, baker and candle stick maker)?_

_No? Well, perhaps another day. Do you live alone?_

_Yes? Do you live in a safe part of London?_

_More or less? What the heck did that mean?!_

John would sigh as numerous black wings would inevitably open all around him, and rustle with displeasure that the white winged doctor lived alone in a disreputable part of London.

John wasn't even sure if he still had an apartment in the shabby men's hostel that he had called home since arriving in England. He had been away so long. Thankfully, he was friends with another one of the vets and he knew the man would keep his things safe.

It made John blush a bit, thinking about the wide disparity between himself and Sherlock in terms of social status. Sherlock didn't know how bad his situation really was. John was a proud man yes, but he wouldn't say no to crashing in Sherlock's house for awhile if he could. Besides, the doctor had become accustomed to the man's lively company, and it kept him from brooding on the bad stuff. Stuff that he should have left behind in Afghanistan and that small harbour in China.

John looked up at the sky as a large shadow past over him but he was disappointed yet again, that it wasn't his friend. This silent treatment was making John feel disoriented and unhappy.

A loud thump came from behind him, but he knew it wasn't Sherlock. The detective was as graceful as a cat and would never make that sound when he landed. As such the doctor turned around with a soft sigh, and plastered an insincere smile on his face.

'Halo John!' came the excited greeting from a huge hulk of man who John couldn't remember was Harry or Harold. 'Are you interested in flying this morning?'

John couldn't help but chuckle now at the genuinely happy grin on the man's face. Gently, John put out a hand and pushed the man back firmly into his own space. The man grinned down at him, not at all put out.

'Thanks,' John replied, 'but not today.'

Another sharp rustle came from the left, 'I can take you, doctor.'

'Would you stop crowding the man?' a third voice protested loudly.

Soon John was inundated with interested fliers and just people who were passing by and who had stopped to see if there was any trouble. Of course, all those agitated wings in such close proximity were never a good thing.

John hissed and immediately covered the thin cut along his neck with one hand.

'Are you alright?' Harry/ Harold asked in alarm.

'It's just a scratch,' John insisted, as he tried to stop the bleeding.

'Someone call a doctor!' came a panicked cry from the group that hemmed him in.

'I _am_ a doctor,' John said dryly, when a sixth sense made him look up just as a large shape suddenly dropped out of the sky that was populated with early morning flyers. There was only one person he knew that loved diving in such a reckless fashion.

'Umm...' John began anxiously, 'maybe you fellows better clear off... just for a bit.'

The group surrounding him wisely vanished as quickly as they had appeared.


	23. I miss you

Chapter 23- **I miss you**

Sherlock came in so hot that he skipped across the deck a few times, passing John completely before he was able to stop. Immediately, he whirled around and rushed up to the smaller man, who Sherlock noticed still had his hand disconcertingly pressed against his neck.

'Easy, Sherl,' the doctor said in a steady sure voice that soothed the heart pounding panic that had seized up Sherlock's lungs, 'it's just a scratch.'

However, Sherlock pried away John's resisting fingers needing to survey the damage for himself.

_Stupid! Stupid! How could I leave John here alone unprotected among these wild savages?_

Sherlock had come to relish flying in the cool early morning, when hardy anyone was around to annoy him with conversation. He had just begun thinking of a breakfast omelet and coffee, when he glanced down to see John like the proverbial bulls-eye in a target of black feathers.

_If those idiotic MORONS have hurt John, then by God I am going to..._

Sherlock's pale face contorted in confusion as he minutely examined the cut, followed by disbelief which finally shifted into annoyance.

'For GOD's sake John, is that it?!' Sherlock shouted as he whirled around to glower scornfully at those who were still nearby, 'From their reaction, I thought someone had sliced open your jugular, at the very least!'

John grinned at Sherlock's back.

'Excuse me, don't you know that Dr. Watson was in the military!' he sneered at Harry/Harold who had bravely stood his ground when everyone else had scampered off.

Here was yet another characteristic to add to all the other stuff John liked about his new best mate. All his adult life, John had to fight to be taken seriously as a solider and an army doctor. He even had to hire a lawyer once when it became apparent that his promotion to captain was being shuffled around from desk to desk. While John could understand that his white wings made him rare and people would always treat him differently, it was still his life to live, and having a small country practice as he was condescendingly advised on several occasions was not for him. Sherlock was one of the very few people who saw all of him, not just his white wings.

The detective turned back to him, just in time to notice the fond smile on the man's face.

'What?' Sherlock asked in a flat voice, looking confused.

John waved his hands in a _it's-nothing_ gesture.

'I will talk to the captain,' Sherlock assured him, 'The men shouldn't crowd you like that. It's not like there are railings around the deck.'

'Sherlock, I am not going to fall off,' John laughed in amusement, 'It was an accident. It's all right.'

'IT'S NOT ALRIGHT!' Sherlock shouted gesticulating wildly.

Suddenly Sherlock lurched to one side, and John had to spring forward and press him against a nearby metal staircase. The detective hung on to the rails for dear life, breathing deeply as he tried to stop the deck from spinning.

'Easy, easy, let all the blood get back to the right places. This happens when you just fall out of the sky like that,' John murmured in his best bedside manner, massaging the tension in Sherlock's neck, 'did you eat breakfast as yet?'

Eventually, Sherlock opened up one blue eye.

'It's the woolly jumpers,' John whispered and winked at him conspiratorially, 'that's why everyone underestimates me.'

Sherlock snorted loudly at the man's foolishness. 'But you are alright? You are not hiding any injuries for me, are you? Tell me!'

'Fit as a fiddle, I assure you,' John insisted, continuing with his soothing massage. In the meantime, Sherlock's massive wings unfolded softly, and John's hands moved to those areas that were now exposed.

'No one would underestimate you, if you let me dress you,' Sherlock remarked conversationally.

'Ah yes,' John agreed in an enthusiastic voice, 'but then we would lose the element of surprise, when I unleash my powerful kung fu, on our enemy.'

'Well, we wouldn't want that, would we?' Sherlock mumbled sarcastically under his breath as he stood up, gently pushing those caring hands back towards their owner. Discretely Sherlock scanned the man's face, noting the signs of strain there despite the fact that John was smiling.

_Nightmare again, then._

_Need to occupy his mind. _

_Gad! Why couldn't someone commit a murder on board, so we would have something interesting to do?!_

This train of thought reminded Sherlock that he was not talking to John at the moment. The detective's wings snapped closed, as he stomped off loudly with his aristocratic nose pointed self righteously in the air.

'REALLY?!' John shouted in annoyance, stunned by this childishness, 'We're doing this again?! You are such a blasted...!'

A gentle cough came from behind, alerting John that he was not alone. His face was a bit pink as he joined Mycroft who was standing in the shade, like some vampire afraid of the sun.

'Don't you start with me, we're not fighting!' John insisted in a strangled voice, 'Sherlock's just in a strop.'

'Indeed,' Mycroft said mildly.

Harry/Harold, who had followed the doctor, cleared his throat sheepishly. 'Sorry John, I didn't mean to cause you this trouble.'

Sherlock peeked over his shoulder at this point, and scowled when John patted this new friend companionably on the arm. With a loud disgusted sniff, the slim detective marched off in the direction of the nearest coffee station.

'It's not a problem,' the doctor reassured his black winged companion with a pleasant smile. 'So correct me if I am wrong, but I understand my team is facing yours in the tug of war competition this evening. I look forward to making you fall flat on your face!'

The man laughed loudly, amused by John's playful boast.

'I wouldn't count on it,' he replied in mock sorrow, flexing his large biceps and pectorals rhythmically to demonstrate his point. 'See you later.'

Mycroft had been following the conversation, and as the other man walked away, he wondered anew why someone as personable as John would want to be close companions with his tactless brother.

'You may have noticed the vast age difference between Sherlock and I,' Mycroft suddenly blurted out of the blue, startling the small doctor.

John hummed vaguely wondering what this was about.

'Sherlock wasn't exactly expected...' Mycroft continued to confide in a soft voice, 'as such, we may have spoiled him when he was a child, just a bit.'

John turned to him with a barely suppressed grin, interested in hearing more about baby Sherlock.

Mycroft smiled down indulgently at the man's eager expression. 'I remember when we took him to the pre-school to register, he chased all the children out of the sandbox with his plastic shovel.'

John raised an curious eyebrow, waiting for the punchline.

'It was _his_ sandbox,' Mycroft explained simply, with a nostalgic smile before turning serious again.

'Fortunately, Sherlock has weathered that particular parental misstep. He's not a materialistic man but what few possessions he has, he tends _not_ to want to share. Do you take my meaning?'

Mycroft stared at him at this point for a long moment.

John looked blank at first before his eyes widened in surprise, 'Oh, you mean me? Well...that's okay because I feel the same way about him. I don't want to share him either; your brother's amazing. Frankly, I can't believe he wants me around so much. I mean...I am a nobody and he's this spectacular human being. Don't you think?'

'Quite,' Mycroft choked, taken aback by this enthusiastic response.

'Guess that explains why he is in such a rotten mood,' John surmised,'everyone here has been crowding me and trying to pull me in a talk.'

The doctor gnawed absently on his thumb, wondering how to turn this around. With a a dull pain in his chest, it dawned on him that Sherlock was perhaps aware of all the offers he had gotten to fly. John was glad now that he had refused these eager invitations even though it was mainly because his nightmares had him exhausted and stressed. He didn't want to imagine the look on Sherlock's face if he had accepted someone's offer.

Harry/Harold, poked his head around the corner, 'John! Are you there? Maybe you should check on Sherlock. I think he needs a rescue.'

John rushed forward, eager for this opportunity to have more interaction with the detective. He wasn't too concerned that Sherlock was in much trouble. They were on a ship in the middle of the ocean, what really could happen?

The doctor frowned though as he rounded the corner. Clearly, Sherlock had been on his way to speak to the captain about what had happened to John, when he had been ambushed.

'This is preposterous!' Sherlock yelled in English at whatever Aya was saying to him, 'you always take his side! Always!'

John came upon the two just as Sherlock hissed something in German that sounded suspicious, especially when the detective, noticing John at his elbow, turned a dull plum in color.

'She started it,' Sherlock whined as he pointed at the little girl.

'And I am ending it!' John said firmly, 'I hope you didn't just use a bad word infront of Aya, for shame Sherlock! What is all this about?'

'I have been instructed to stop being such a poop head, ' Sherlock rumbled in a put out voice.'

'Poop?' John repeated stupidly.

'Dung,' Sherlock explained in a listless manner.

Aya said something excitedly in German, and John looked to him for a translation.

'Would you like to go for an ice cream?' Sherlock parroted in a flat voice, 'it is a pretty day.'

John glanced at his wrist watch. It was a quarter to eight.

'Sure!' he lied happily, 'that sounds great.'

Sherlock snorted disbelieving but obediently turned in the direction of the kitchens, 'Are you sure you can squeeze us into to your schedule? Don't you have autographs to sign?'

'I don't sign autographs!' John snapped angrily before he could stop himself, 'and you KNOW that!'

With a whimper of distress, Aya reached up and held on to both their hands, of course not understanding the words but still able to deduce the harshness in their interaction.

John sighed and leaned down to kiss her warmly on the cheek, 'It's alright honey. I am sorry I shouted. Don't worry.'

The little girl jumped up in his arms and hugged him tightly. With another sigh, the doctor patted her back before glancing across in time to see the upset look on Sherlock's face before he covered it up.

'Shall we?' the detective said awkwardly.

In tense silence they continued along until they reached the kitchens, where the friendly cook didn't even blink when John asked for ice cream in a subdued voice. Sherlock used the metal scoop and dredged together a vanilla ball for Aya into a small cone, and decorated it with multicolored sprinkles.

'Danke, Onkel,' she said brightening as she took the cone that was thrust in her direction, but as Sherlock stood there like a robot staring at the opposite wall, John started shifting around uncomfortably.

'Look Sherlock,' he began, 'I am sorry I am haven't been spending much time with you. '

Sherlock turned his head and stared at him blankly.

'I mean, I know we see each other every night,' John babbled as the man continued to stare at him stonily, 'but I don't like this where we are not talking. I don't like how you have cut off my access to what's in your head. I miss you.'

'You do?' Sherlock blurted out in some surprise.

'Yes!' John cried in exasperation.

Sherlock turned his head away again.

'When we reach home, we'll do something, just you and me,' John said coaxingly.

'I want to go to the Yard,' Sherlock said swiftly, in a stubborn voice. 'God, only knows how many cases Lestrade has bungled since I have been away.

'Can I come?'

Sherlock assessed him with a squinty glare, before reaching out to take Aya from his arms. 'You may prepare for me a two scoop waffle cone, one peanut butter scoop, one coconut with dark chocolate syrup, and then I will decide.'

Bemused, John took the scoop and prepared the desired (if not a bit disgusting) dessert. He had never settled an argument with ice cream before.

Sherlock took the cone, assessed it critically all around, before taking a tentative bite. John then grinned when Sherlock suddenly began prattling on and on, in a manner that John had sorely missed. Days and days of data and observations began flowing in John's direction, as if a giant plug had been pulled from out of Sherlock's side.

Soon, the doctor absently began humming softly to himself, as the men walked slowly side by side along the long deck with a happy Aya hopping in between them.

'Isn't Uncle John having some ice cream?' she asked Sherlock, when the detective paused to take a breath.

'Uncle John needs a cup of tea before anything else, first thing in the morning,' Sherlock answered.

'How dull,' she said in such a good imitation of Sherlock, that the detective had to grin as he slurped his ice cream.


	24. Tournament

**Anote**: Hello my lovely readers. Just wanted to say thanks to everyone who is following and favouriting. This is one of my most popular Sherlock stories to date.

Chapter 24- **Tournament**

John remembered when he had been shot, he had spent a long time in recovery. While he was there he hadn't wanted to talk to anyone else in the hospital, so he watched a lot of television. There was this oddball movie he had seen about an English Knight set to rock music. The movie's plot came back to him now as he sat all alone in the corner of the sparring ring in the ship's gym area.

To explain more clearly there was a Prince in the movie, and because he was to be the future king of England, none of the other knights would joust with him, in case they injured his Majesty. The Prince still tried to get someone to engage in tournament with him, but again and again his opponents would bow out of the games. In the movie, the Prince had looked disappointed but was quite gracious in the decision of his nobles. John however, didn't feel gracious that no one wanted to spar with him. He was pissed; pissed and humiliated. With his teeth, he began tearing at the lacings of the red boxing gloves that were to protect his fingers from injury.

Sherlock laid a restraining hand on his friend's shoulder, 'John?'

The doctor shrugged off Sherlock's hand, feeling the hot tears of embarrassment prick at the back of his eyeballs.

'It's fine, Sherlock,' he croaked before clearing his throat, 'someone else can have my spot. I am holding back everything.'

'I will spar with you,' the detective announced unsurely, as he caught sight of John's angry face, 'don't...'

John whirled around and the detective backed off slightly, as for one moment he thought that the other man was going to punch him in the face.

'Sherlock?' John whimpered softly, too caught up in his own head to notice his friend's reaction, 'why does this always happen to me?' After a moment, Sherlock reached out and pulled John towards him, and the smaller man promptly threw out his arm to hold him tight in a one armed hug.

To keep five hundred or so men entertained on the long voyage home, the captain of the HMS Ocean had struck upon the idea to organise them into teams and have some games and training sessions. The men had eagerly embraced the idea and quickly sorted themselves out by country, and the training began. There was a general feeling among them all that if they could get their little group sufficiently trained and working as a cohesive unit, then they could be called on in the future for other assignments; a special winged battalion of sorts that could aid in situations where a world view was needed, like the United Nations. Mycroft had pronounced it a commendable idea, but in his heart he thought it was just a matter of time before it became as bureaucratically bogged down as other ventures of a similar nature.

However, the training sessions were going well as most of the men were, as John came to quickly learn, already in some sort of protective service, be it firemen, police, military, security guards. They understood how to move in a unit and how to take orders.

It took John's breath away to realise that this remnant of their past, where black winged humans were called on to give their lives for others weaker than themselves, still lingered somewhere in their minds today. Of course, there were a few like Sherlock who were academics in the group, but even they, when you looked at it closely, bent their astounding mental talents to helping others who were in danger.

In the meantime, John had volunteered to oversee some training exercises especially designed for the inexperienced ones. So even though Sherlock strenuously protested that he didn't need any training, John had pulled him into these sessions. The doctor was supervising everyone but was keeping one eye on his best mate, and was quite surprised at how athletic Sherlock was. Indeed, after only one demonstration, Sherlock could tie a rope and repel down the side of the ship as well as anyone who had been in the army all their life. You wouldn't think a brainiac like Sherlock would be so good at all of this. John suspected that there was a good story there. Perhaps running down criminals in the streets of London was excellent exercise.

To lighten up the monotony of training exercises there were games, and that is when John's woes started.

When he was part of the UK's team it was alright, a little annoying when they all fluttered around him as though afraid a ball would jump up and kill him, but it was bearable. The mischievous side of John's personality especially enjoyed the look of awe and caution on everyone's face when he bested them all in the marksmanship trails. The tug of war had been a riot, as Harold (not Harry), anchoring for the Australians had pulled the British team into a heap of arms, legs and wings within two seconds of the whistle. John had laughed uncontrollable along with his teammates as Harold hurried over to ensure that the doctor was alright.

However, it was apparent that signing up for the sparring competition was a terrible idea.

Sherlock patted John's back gently, as the group of dark winged men muttered around them. The detective knew they were upset with him, and quite a few had cornered him in recent days to express their displeasure that he would allow Dr. Watson to engage in these 'dangerous' activities. Sherlock would stare at them blankly over the edge of his mobile for a few seconds, before returning to whatever he was reading. John however tended to yell and wave his arms angrily around when people talked like that.

'There, there,' Sherlock said comfortingly down at John's blonde head, and he rolled his eyes at how stupid he sounded. When his Mrs Hudson said it, it didn't sound half as stupid.

The two friends, having come to some understanding, were as thick of thieves for the last couple of days. You couldn't see one without the other, and their closeness was at times often smiled at, as John walked around wearing Sherlock's blue scarf on windy days, and other times Sherlock would run barefooted across the deck with one of John's jumpers thrown over his pajamas, searching for a late night snack. Even John's nightmares had abated, more because he was so busy chasing after Sherlock and pulling him out of trouble. For example like that time Sherlock so aggravated the ship's cook with an intense interrogation on the meat in his breakfast sausages, that the chef had promised to introduce Sherlock to his meat cleaver, and other such sundry incidents. Each night the small man would fall gratefully into a bed, face down in the pillow and snore softly until the next day. He would never observe Sherlock's knowing smirk in the dark.

'Thanks Sherlock for offering,' John stepped back, looking a little more composed, 'but I would rather not fight you.'

John smiled sheepishly at the audience around him, 'so much for having control over you guys.'

'Well, you haven't really tried have you?' Sherlock said with a teasing look.

John mock glared at the audience, 'Quite right. I command one of you to fight me.'

The group of men lined up for the boxing competition, stared back at the small man not at all amused. They had risked their lives in that small harbour in China to save him, and there was no way that anyone would dare risk harm to his body.

'I feel as though I am in a movie,' John groused companionably as Sherlock doubled over, sniggering with evil laughter. John turned around to thunk Sherlock in the stomach when a noise behind caught his attention.

Harold stood there in the middle of the ring, all six feet five inches of him with a woebegone expression on his face.

'I know I am clumsy and big,' Harold stumbled out, 'and can't box too good, but that's because no one wants to practice with me. I will spar with you, John.'

A loud hiss of displeasure arose around the room. Harold for all his massive size was a timid sort and the poor man turned red, as most everyone glared at him.

John swallowed nervously. One miscalculated step and Harold could knock him into next week with his huge hands, but the doctor understood better than anyone else the feeling that because of some freak of biology, you couldn't fit in anywhere.

'Are you sure you want to taste these fists, Harold?' John said with a playful enocuraging smile, as he stepped away from Sherlock and approached the man in the centre.

Harold could only nod in silence, thrilled to finally have a sparring partner and to be so distinguished by the white winged doctor. The doctor even knew his first name! Imagine that!

Not everyone was thrilled about Dr. Watson's decision though, and the noise the onlookers made as their feathers rattled together in displeasure was enough to drown out normal conversation.

John ignored this bit of worried fussing as he took a moment to open his wings, before proceeding to dance agilely round and round the immobile Harold.

'Don't look at them!' John advised the overwhelmed man in a shout, 'Look at me!'

The doctor glanced briefly at Sherlock. The detective still had his wings closed but was gripping one of the ropes hard in a tight anxious fist.

'Piece of cake!' John boasted to the other man, causing Sherlock to snort in derision and roll his eyes.

'What should I do now?' Harold stammered out as he watched John move around him like a agitated humming bird.

John snapped out an exploratory blow which caught Harold on the shoulder. It was like swatting a concrete wall.

'Well, for one thing,' John began, throwing Sherlock a look to ensure that the man had seen his punch and the reaction of the bigger man. The detective nodded his head briefly, 'you need to keep your gloves up.'

Harold obeyed quickly and John had to grin at the man's excited expression.

'Okay, now you have to move around,' John advised, 'or you will be a sitting duck.'

The Australian tried to imitate John's deft footwork, almost tripping in the process.

'Now, try a punch,' the doctor called out after a minute or so of this. It was good that John was prepared to duck, as Harold's fist shot out so quickly it made the air above his head sing. His feet may be slow but his hands were not.

A gasp went up from the anxious audience.

'HOLD THE LINE!' Sherlock shouted at them, as the onlookers sprang to their feet ready to storm into the ring. The power of the detective's voice however, arrested the disruption of the match.

For now.

'How was that?' Harold squeaked in a whisper of shame, even as John glared at the rest of them in annoyance.

'I will make all you blighters clear off, if you don't get a grip!' the doctor cried threateningly, shaking one of his red gloves at them, 'Harold, just ignore them. You're doing great.'

'You're so super nice,' Harold blurted out in awe as John faced him again, which caused the mob to laugh cruelly at the gentle giant.

'Thanks, Harold,' John said giving him a companionably cuff on the bicep, 'you've made my week with that one. I think you're just great.'

That shut up the rest of them up quick and they glared at Harold with sulky looks of jealously.

Eventually, the audience mellowed out a bit as it was clear that even though it was not possible for the doctor to win such a mismatched fight, Harold didn't have a clue as to what he was was doing. From where they stood, Doctor Watson was getting the work out he wanted without being in actual danger. Still, they watched each move vigilantly, especially as it appeared as though the smaller man was slowing down as he bobbed and weaved energetically to avoid being hit.

'John?' Sherlock called out. 'I would try go around to the left, about now.'

'I know, I know,' the doctor mumbled, and instantly Harold was on the alert.

'What's going on?!' the big man asked in alarm as he almost tripped again.

'I am getting a little tired,' John shrugged casually ,'so I will have to knock you out now.'

By the time that particular idea had penetrated Harold's brain, John had used his wings to give him a slight lift before rushing him from the left and punching the man hard in the neck.

Harold swayed and collapsed like a giant statue, much to the surprise of everyone there.

Not Sherlock, of course.

John was a doctor, and it wasn't hard to deduce that he would use his extensive medical knowledge against a larger opponent. Sherlock wouldn't want to fight John at all and he really didn't know why the rest of them were always so worried. Between John's medical knowledge and his steady aim, the smaller man could take care of himself, thank you very much.

'Would you start counting, you useless oaf?!' Sherlock sneered at the referee who had been standing off to one side, slacking off with a cola drink. The flustered official rushed into the middle with his cola bottle still in hand to start the ten second count.

Thoroughly bemused by the events of the last couple of seconds, everyone eventually joined in a loud chorus of counting, while a few others laughingly yelled at Harold trying to get him to wake up.

The bell chimed and after another loud pause of astonishment, the entire crowd erupted in a happy roar, spilling into the small ring and scooping up John who of course was naturally quite elated. Quickly, they all charged out of the gymnasium to take a victory lap on the deck.

Sherlock shook his head with a small smile at the big grin on John's face.


	25. A cute couple

Chapter 25- **A cute couple**

With a frown, John held one donated shirt up to his bare chest and then another, switching between them repeatedly, trying to make a decision. His go-to-outfit for parties was blue over khaki but not this bright blue! It looked almost florescent, as he grimaced in the small mirror that hung over the sink in the corner of their room.

However, looking all suave and handsome didn't really matter anyway.

He had peeked in on the secretive party planners before he was shooed away. Yes, they had some cracking good music warming up on the ship's sound system but with no girls and no beer in sight, John was worried that his new black winged friends, were cooking up something creative in the kitchens that was going to land them in the brig, if the brig could have held all five hundred of them.

The week's grace that Mycroft had negotiated had expired today, and while their rescuers were sad to be separated from them, John had solemnly promised in several different languages to join their group on Facebook. Aya's feet hadn't touched the ground once all day, as everyone took their last opportunity to steal a hug or a kiss from the loving little girl they had saved.

A rustle came from behind John as the door opened, but he didn't turn around. Sherlock had scuttled out a few minutes ago in a panic to hunt down some hair product, much to John's amusement.

'Find anything?' he called over his shoulder.

'Treasure beyond imagination, apparently,' came a teasing unfamiliar voice that caused John to yelp in an undignified way as he turned around, crushing the shirts against his chest in an effort to preserve his modesty. 'Now that I see what's under those horrible jumpers you normally wear.'

It wasn't true that there were no women on board.

John hadn't realised it at first at all, as her huge pure black wings made her blend in with everyone else in the group. Indeed if Irene hadn't taken such a fancy to staring at Sherlock from a distance, John probably wouldn't have noticed her even though everyone else had. When the rest of them weren't busy monitoring John and Aya to ensure they didn't trip on life threatening pebbles, they were staring at the young woman as she walked across their line of vision, hips swaying rhythmically like liquid sex. However, unlike all the others, she had never approached John seeking to introduce herself.

'He's not here,' the doctor squeaked as he hustled along the wall, instinctively not wanting to get pinned into a corner by the overwhelming woman. She already took up a great deal of space in the small cabin, as she entered into the room and opened her large wings.

'Don't be afraid of me,' she said with a smile of her painted lips, as she beckoned him forward.

John cleared his throat.

'I'm not,' he replied,'you just caught me by surprise. Can you give me a minute to finish dress?'

The woman dropped her hand in disappointment but she was not ready to give up as yet. She turned to the pieces on the bed and began to rifle through the available selections.

'Where is he?' she asked in a demanding voice, 'why isn't he answering my texts?'

'I couldn't say,' the doctor hedged loyally in a vague voice. He had teased Sherlock about his female admirer, but the detective seemed completely unaffected by the fact that a gorgeous brunette was watching his every move. No matter how he encouraged his friend, Sherlock hadn't been the least bit inclined to get his bum out of his lawn chair and talk to the woman.

In the meantime, Irene gave up trying to find a decent shirt in the mass of linens that had been brought to supplement John's meager wardrobe.

With a conversational hum, she sank on to Sherlock's bed, crossed her long legs and leaned back on arms, staring up at him with her make up enhanced eyes. John scowled, trying to put a finger on the contradiction of the woman in front of him, with her wide eyed innocence on the one hand, and the skin tight black outfit that left nothing to the imagination. He was glad now that Sherlock didn't seem that interested in her. She was hardly the type to take home to mummy.

'He has been talking about me, hasn't he?' she queried unexpectedly as she plucked out a white silk shirt from the pile and handed it to him, 'You are unusually hostile to me, considering I traveled all the way from London to China, and risked my life in exchange for yours.'

John stepped forward and took the shirt from her.

'Do you want to leave a message, Miss?' the doctor replied as politely as he could manage.

'We had a quarrel, and I want a chance to apologise,' she stated in a flippant way that indicated to the man that she wasn't really sorry at all. 'Do you want to know what about?'

'Not particularly,' John hissed under his breath, as he turned to face the wall to dress.

'He's very protective of you,' she mused in a dreamy faraway voice, either ignoring or not understanding John's request for privacy, 'he's always been a lone wolf and now this.'

The doctor's ears perked up, filing away this information. Irene has been watching his friend for awhile.

'And now you are blocking my access to him,' she said in a sharp voice with a speculative glint in her eye, 'you do make a cute pair, I confess.'

'We're not a couple!' John cried out in frustration before he could help himself.

She only grinned as she stood swiftly, and approached him with a baby blue tie in one of her small hands. The doctor took in a deep annoyed breath and exhaled sharply through his nose, as the woman unnecessarily invaded his personal space to do up his front and slide the tie under the collar of his shirt.

'I can see why he likes to keep you around,' she breathed in a provocative way against the side of his face, while she tightened the tie to a noose like consistency. John stiffened in discomfort when she ran the palm of her hand down his chest under the pretense of smoothing wrinkles. 'I wouldn't mind if _both_ of you could come to my flat for dinner. My treat. I will leave it to you to arrange the details.'

The expression in her eyes didn't leave room for misinterpretation.

'Not interested,' John said stonily.

'Oh, but you are.'

The doctor snagged the hand that had boldly cupped him through his pants.

'Stop that! What's wrong with you?!' John shouted as he gave her a shake. 'Sherlock is my friend!'

John was repulsed by the look of shining excitement in her eyes. 'Look, I think you better leave...'

He yelped again in shock, as the woman with surprising strength suddenly twisted him around, and leveraged him onto Sherlock's bunk. His breath got properly knocked out of him as his back hit the mattress with a thump.

'Get off me!' John yelled angrily when she straddled his lap.

'John?' Sherlock called from the open doorway.

The doctor was so startled by this movie like timing that he roughly shoved Irene off him, without thinking that she maybe injured in the process. However, the woman was unhurt as she rolled gracefully to her knees.

Sherlock looked from one face to another; John's pale and horrified, to Irene's calculated and mischievous.

John then gasped in astonishment as Sherlock calmly held out one hand, and gently assisted Irene to her feet, 'are you alright?'

'Yes, I am fine,' she said sourly as she closed her wings, irritated that she hadn't gotten an emotional rise out of the man who had rebuffed her attentions for so long. Sherlock bent his head to whisper into her ear, as step by step he began herding her out the door. Not willing to accept defeat though, she reached up on tip toe to kiss him on the cheek, before Sherlock finally closed the door to their cabin.

'WHAT THE BLOODY HELL WAS THAT?!' John roared from the bed, understandingly upset.

'Did she hurt you?' Sherlock asked, hurrying forward to see for himself.

'Nah, I'm fine,' John grumbled as he heaved himself up to a sitting position and began readjusting his tie. Gingerly he then massaged each wrist that had been held in her vice like grip, 'My pride's just a little banged up.'

In silence Sherlock sat on the opposite bunk, already kitted out for this evening's dawn till dusk festivities in black slacks, close fitting black shirt and red tie.

'Just to be clear,' John said sharply in a strangled voice, 'that disgusting scene was entirely orchestrated by her to upset you.'

'I am aware,' Sherlock replied dismissively.

John gave him a pained look.

'I can't leave you for five minutes without you falling into some sort of trouble, can I?' Sherlock joked. 'Am I to expect similar episodes in the future?'

However, his best mate was not amused neither was he distracted.

'Look, why did she kiss you? Are you two together?' John inquired in a tight, aggressive voice.

'No.'

Deciding to go out on a limb just in case Sherlock was considering it, John nodded his head in approval. 'Well I am glad. I don't like her! You could do loads better!'

'You think so?' Sherlock asked quietly as he rolled the tub of borrowed hair gel in his long fingers. 'I am not a very lovable person, or so I've been told. Perhaps this is as good as it is ever going to get for me.'

John's eyes bulged, 'Don't even think that! I can help you find someone! That woman is awful.'

'But not boring,' Sherlock countered in a subdued way that worried the doctor.

John leaned closer to his friend with an anxious sober look, 'listen to what your instincts are telling you. You don't want to be close to someone like that. I would take being bored every single day, over having my insides eviscerated and that is what is going to happen. She was trying to use me, your best mate, to make you jealous!'

Sherlock laughed softly at John's worry for him as he stared off into space. He had been leading John on with his answers, but he couldn't help himself. He loved hearing and feeling the warm, comforting weight of John's concern for his well being. It was pleasant to have someone in his life that didn't have layers. Not that the ex-army doctor was simple minded, but when it came to friendship John was, to quote a colorful American detective he had once met, a shoot from the hip type of person. However, Sherlock had his own reasons for keeping Irene close, that had nothing to do with "dinner". He just hadn't quite decided if he wanted John mixed up in this, but now it seemed almost inevitable.

He refocused his gaze when John took one of his hands in his own,'if you want to be close to someone, I am volunteering. I have your six, Sherlock.'

'Even if it's dangerous?'

'Oh hell yeah,' John said excitedly like a little boy at Christmas.

'You are a thoroughly bad influence, Doctor Watson,' the detective replied as he laughed in his low baritone tone, which of course set John off, and the two men dissolved into a loud fit of giggles that would have put Mycroft's teeth on edge if had been within hearing.


	26. Farewell

**Anote**: Having trouble finding time to write so I just did a short one to keep in practice.

Chapter 26- **Farewell**

The sun was well and truly up, but Mycroft suspected he was the only passenger on board the private plane bound for Germany who was awake.

It had been a farewell party of epic proportions, and all about him came soft snores and sleepy sighs. One of the air hostesses came to clear his breakfast plate, and shared a secret smile with him.

'Time?' he asked.

'The pilot says ten minutes till Frankfurt airport, sir,' she said politely, while she efficiently whisked away the used plates. Mycroft unbuckled his seat beat and stretched his tired back.

It had been pointless to sleep last night with the loud music on board the Queen's ship. World War 3 could have been raging, and they wouldn't have known. His poor ears were still ringing from the blistering assault.

At least the music had been interesting.

Mycroft mused that because of the language barriers, they choose music with few words but with energetic rhythms. However, to his amusement Beyonce seemed to have universal appeal, and there was a new one from another American singer Bruno Mars that had gotten quite a line dance going. He and Sherlock knew how to dance of course, but not to music like that. As such the two brothers had stood side by side, trying to keep out of everyone's way, when John dragged his new friend from off the side of the wall.

Mycroft had spent the rest of the time gleefully taping his brother's "lessons" with his mobile. John had been relentlessly; deaf as a post to Sherlock's whining that he was starting to perspire and didn't like it.

The government agent would of course be the first to admit that he and his sibling had a trying relationship. However, that wasn't to say that he didn't deeply admire Sherlock's energy, profoundly respected his tenacity and wholly envied Sherlock's new ability to dance along to pop music lyrics that proclaimed he was "smoother than a fresh jar of Skippy."

He was glad that he had been there to see this softer, more joyful side of Sherlock.

In the meantime as he walked up the plane aisle, the older man quietly hummed the chorus, remembering with pleasure the extraordinary and unforgettable sight of hundreds of black winged men, dancing in unison, with John like a spot light somewhere in the third row.

The government agent raised an eyebrow when he turned into the area where he knew his brother sat. Sherlock and his friends were clearly trying to flufficate him to death with this adorable scene.

As if picking up on Mycroft's presence, the dark haired man murmured in his sleep then, which caused his large left wing that was curled around the shoulder of a sleeping John to shift slightly. Aya, who lay sprawled across John's entire chest with her small butt poking up in the air, completed the tableau of overwhelming cuteness.

Mycroft reached out and took Sherlock's hand in his, gradually increasing the pressure in his fingers.

The detective was instantly awake and as was his habit he looked around him alertly, quickly deducing his surroundings. He too looked at their white winged passengers and smiled fondly, the tip of his wing repeatedly brushing John's unruly hair before drifting down to lightly brush against the delicate shell of Aya's cheek bones.

Mycroft gave him a look and then shifted his glance quickly towards the doctor.

Sherlock shook his head.

John hadn't yet decided if he was going to Germany with the Muellers. With the resilience of youth, it would appear that Aya had begun placing the nightmare of her captivity behind her as she had stopped shadowing John and Sherlock all around the ship. If they went to her home now, it would be more for a holiday than anything.

The plane touched down with a slight jolt but it was enough to shake John awake. The small man stiffened in surprise though when he opened his eyes, to see both Holmes examining him with twin looks of interest. It was hard sometimes to see the resemblance, but not now; not when the same bright light of intelligence that saw five steps ahead in four directions, shone from their eyes.

Automatically John wound his arms around the little girl protectively; kissing the smooth blonde head that was pressed to his chest.

'Hey? What time is it?'

The brothers exchanged a surprised glance at this telling action. Aya's reaction to being separated from John, had unfortunately blinded them to the same scenario in reverse. However, before Sherlock could comment, the Muellers came up the aisle, with happy relieved looks on their faces, and Sherlock stepped forward to provide the translations.

Translations however were not needed, when the grateful mother extended her arms only to draw back in astonishment as John hastily scrambled out of his seat, away from her.

Quickly Sherlock stood infront his friend, hands held out in a calming gesture. 'John, look at me.'

The doctor obeyed but the detective could sense the momentary flash back of fear and confusion swimming in his blue eyes.

'John, you are safe,' Sherlock assured him, 'Aya's safe. She's home; her mother is here.'

Over his shoulder, Sherlock explained the situation in German while Mycroft ducked around to the back of John, just in case. The Muellers murmured their sympathetic concern, reminding Sherlock that they were just a few hours away and the duo were welcome at anytime. Of course by now Aya was awake, and gave a gigantic yawn that nearly swallowed the world.

'Onkel, John!' she chirped excitedly, hugging him around his neck tightly. 'Home?'

John looked down at her, as he gradually came back to himself. He was safe, surrounded by his new friends. General Shen and her minions were far behind him.

The doctor put the small girl to sit on one of the big chairs while he sat on the one opposite. The two white winged friends then sat there staring at each for a long moment, not needing any words. Finally Aya smiled brightly at him, and then she was gone.

In the choking emotional silence that followed, the detective reached out and placed one hand comfortingly on John's shoulder as the small man sat there unmoving, gazing at the empty seat with an impassive look on his face.

'I'll tell the pilot we are ready,' Sherlock offered softly, his voice cracking slightly, giving away the fact that he was also going to miss the brave little girl.


	27. an outstanding appointment

Chapter 27-** an outstanding appointment**

John remembered the time he had returned home from the war. Racked with physical pain from his wing injury, and the additional ache in his heart that no one was there to met him at the airport, had made him feel like an old man, carrying the proverbial world on his back. In that instance, he had hitched his army bag across his good shoulder and hurried blindly through the terminal.

This time though as John made his way through Heathrow, it felt completely natural to open his arms, and tenderly hug the blue police box which was part of a Dr. Who display for the tourists.

Sherlock was quite unperturbed by his friend's actions as John was understandably happy to be home, after being almost sold into slavery or death in a squalid harbor in Asia. In contrast, Mycroft looked around him in embarrassment; not liking such overt displays of emotion.

However, what the tall detective didn't quite like, was all the attention John was getting from the public at large who, unlike him, were not as used to John's brilliant plumage. Unconsciously, his dark wings unfolded and opened wide on either side of him, effectively blocking John from view and giving everyone else something else to gawk at. The doctor didn't notice all of this though, as he busied himself celebrating his return to England in his own way.

Finally, the small man straightened up and passed his sleeve over his eyes to wipe up the extra moisture.

'Okay,' he croaked, 'take a picture of me before the gang all starts calling my mobile.'

As John slapped a forced smile on his face, Sherlock obligingly got out his phone, only to be stopped by Mycroft's strong grip on his forearm.

'Mycroft, I promised them,' John insisted. 'They are probably all logged on to their Facebook watching the feed, waiting for my post.'

'As of a few days ago, it is now a jailable offence to post or print photos of any white winged human in England,' the agent said as explanation. 'By order of her majesty.'

Sherlock turned to him sharply in unhappy surprise, while John could only gape in astonishment as he slumped against the blue booth.

'Your secret group on the Facebook is still operational, but has added layers of encryption to it,' Mycroft quickly added on, 'my man will be in contact with you regarding further details. This is for your protection.'

They were all distracted from further comment of such unexpected news and its implications, when Sherlock's phone text service activated. Mycroft frowned gently in confusion, but John being John was of course much more vocal.

'What the bleeding hell was that?'

'It's a text,' Sherlock explained tucking away his device without reading the message. 'I've got a text. Problem?'

'I know it's a text but why is it making that noise?!'

'What noise?' Sherlock asked with a wholly insincere look of innocence on his face, and a distracting rustle of his feathers.

And if on cue the phone beeped again, causing John to recoil in disgust at the disturbingly obscene sound of a woman's voice in mid orgasm. 'That noise!'

'Lestrade!' Sherlock called happily, in a completely over the top manner which he would never normally display for a member of Scotland Yard. Naturally, they all turned as the Inspector began forcing himself through the crowd of disembarking passengers.

'JOHN!' the grizzled detective shouted in relief as he hurried up, 'Christ, it's good to see you.'

The doctor had held out his hand to shake, but Greg so overcome with emotion, swept him into a manly hug. In the meantime, Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he deduced the grey pinched look on the Inspector's face.

Before leaving for China, Sherlock had dissuaded the man from accompanying him with some clever twists of purely Machiavellian logic. He hadn't been sorry to manipulate Lestrade to such an end, because Sherlock had mentally prepared himself to do whatever it took to find John, illegal or not. It would not have been fair to the older man to put him in such a position where he would have had to make a career destroying choice.

'I am so sorry for what happened,' Greg muttered regretfully across at John, 'I am sorry I was _right_ there and you were still snatched away. I keep seeing you and Sherlock on the roof, that sunset, remember? That was the last time I saw you alive. Blimey, it's good to see you in one piece!'

John clapped his shoulder consolingly, 'That is all part of my past. I am glad to be home and looking forward to an ice cold beer. I trust that you can arrange it.'

The Inspector brightened considerably at such a friendly, forgiving greeting, 'I know just the place! Leave it all to me.'

Discreetly, the older man examined John's face, and was taken aback by the man's calm appearance. The doctor didn't look like a person who had gone through so much pain and trauma involved with an international kidnapping. This was good, because John was going to need a steady nerve and that ability to bounce back quickly, if he and Sherlock were going to remain colleagues.

With Lestrade leading the way, the four companions drew closer as they slowed their pace to better enjoy each other's company.

Sherlock folded in his wings again so as to maintain his spot at John's side, but was for the most part silent as the others chatted, letting the soothing sound of their banal conversation wash over his mind. He was exhausted both physically and mentally from all that had happened, and was very much looking forward to returning to his flat and being motionless for a while. He couldn't even muster up enough energy to interrogate Lestrade on the number of cases he had mangled beyond recognition, while he was out of London.

'...and then the rest of them just erupted from the ground in a massive black wave,' John exclaimed excitedly as he described Sherlock's brilliant rescue to Lestrade, complete with sound effects, much to the amusement of both of the Holmes.

'Can I drive you boys anywhere?' Lestrade asked, sniggering at the smug look of superiority on Sherlock's face as John praised his creativity,' I took the day off.'

Mycroft nodded his head,'Thank you Inspector, that would be most welcome. I need to go to the office. John, do you think you can keep my brother out of trouble for a few hours?'

Sherlock gave his sibling a baleful glare, and spat something out in French that caused a passing traveler to snort with laughter.

'I'll try,' John sighed in pretend aggravation, a reply to which Sherlock pouted irritably.

Lestrade grinned, enjoying the rare moment of peace and fun in a life that was normally filled with such ugliness. 'Okay where to first? You want that pint or do you want to go to your place, Doctor?'

'I don't have a place,' John said with an uncomfortable hot and cold flush of embarrassment, 'I live at the men's hostel for service men, but that's temporary of course. I am looking for somewhere...'

'No, you're not!' Sherlock interjected hotly,'This job comes with room and board. You're not staying anywhere else! You agreed !'

John frowned as he couldn't remember any conversation of the sort, not that he was complaining. This was exactly what he wanted. Sherlock was not the neatest person, but that wasn't the reason that the doctor preferred his companionship to all others.

'That night!' Sherlock cried out with an increasing edge of panic and anger in his voice. Mycroft reached out with both hands to hold down his brother's wings so they wouldn't snap open and hit everyone in the crowd. It was a testimony to Sherlock's agitation of mind that he didn't comment on his brother's actions. 'You said that you didn't mind cooking!'

A faint memory of a recovering Sherlock at the mansion, acting shifty as he hovered over his shoulder while the doctor microwaved a box of mac and cheese appeared in John's mind. Sherlock had asked him if was okay with all the cooking but the doctor didn't quite see how him saying yes to that, translated into a firm agreement to become housemates. However, John just turned and pressed a hand hard against Sherlock's chest to arrest his attention, 'Easy now. I don't remember what I said but I don't object either. Where do I sign?'

Again, Lestrade stared incredulously at the sudden meekness that had come over Sherlock's expression while Mycroft sighed quietly to himself. Popular to contrary belief, he loved his brother dearly and was always interested in his life. So part of Mycroft was positively alarmed by these personality changes, while the other part was of course pleased that there was someone who could "manage" his unruly little brother so well.

The most striking change to Mycroft's thinking was the unspoken rules of proximity. Sherlock didn't like to be touched and went out of his way to prevent such encounters both in dress and manner, but John was apparently an exception. Not only had they lived out of a tiny room on the ship without incident, Sherlock didn't move away when John sat next to him, nor did he jump if the doctor put out his hand to tuck in any out of place feathers.

'You don't have to sign anything,' Sherlock mumbled looking embarrassed in turn by his outburst that had been witnessed by his interfering sibling, 'just... don't forget again.'

'Ho! What's this?' Lestrade suddenly cried out when they turned the corner for immigration.

A straight line of police men stood at attention across the entire corridor, while others directed the crowd into a tight funnel to get to the counters.

A man in a suit beckoned to them, and Lestrade reflexively pulled out his credentials. 'What's going on here? Who ordered this?'

'Good evening Dr. Watson,' the stranger instead answered, 'would you come with me? There is a car waiting.'

The man took a hasty step back, understandably alarmed when Sherlock loomed over him, opening his giant wings in an aggressively high and wide posture.

'Please answer the Inspector's question. What's this about?' John asked calmly, holding on tightly to Sherlock's elbow.

'It will be explained on the drive,' the man insisted.

'He works at the Palace,' Mycroft said quietly. 'I believe you have outstanding appointment, John.'

'Do I have time for a shower and a change of clothes?' John asked pragmatically, after he had mastered his first flush of nervousness.

'Certainly,' the official said in relief, glad for the easy compliance, even though the three taller members of the doctors party glared at him hostilely. 'It's been all arranged.'

'I am going too,' Lestrade barked, not keen on the idea of leaving John's side, 'I will be company.'

'I too will come,' Mycroft added smoothly and they turned to Sherlock as he folded in his wings with a thoughtful look.

'I am going to Tesco,' Sherlock announced.

'YOU ARE?!'! Lestrade and Mycroft said simultaneously in astonishment.

'I thought I would get some Tea and extra toilet paper,' Sherlock said calmly not at all put off that the others were regarding him as though he had an extra head.

'And I thought you would want to come along,' Mycroft said faintly, not liking when his brother took him by surprise like this.

Sherlock reached in to his coat and retrieved his mobile, reading his mysterious text message. 'John, I also have a flat in the city, at 221 Baker street. Please meet me there when you are done.'

'Sherlock,' John finally spoke up, dropping his voice so they could have privacy 'everything alright? What are you reading?'

'An enigma that is proving difficult to comprehend,' he replied lightly slipping the phone away, 'you're not going to be long, are you?'

'You can come if you want,' John replied, as the man stared intently down at him with an intense expression. 'I would like that.'

'I don't like the palace, however you are in good hands,' Sherlock replied with a small smile, 'well with Lestrade at least.'

John let his hand fall, accidentally brushing against Sherlock's thin fingers. The detective's hands were icy cold.

Knowing that he had been found out by his friend, Sherlock stepped back as if trying to put some distance between himself and this new development.

'You've been telling me for days John, not to worry about this moment,' the young man explained,'and how we are starting a private practice, and the changes you are going to make to the website, and about all the pranks we are going to play on Mycroft. I trust that if this is not going to happen after all, you will come let me know, and not let her Majesty immediately spirit you away to parts unknown with tempting job offers etc. etc.'

Sherlock was exceedingly proud that he was able to get through that ballsy little speech without falling apart. He didn't feel well at all.

John supposed he could have at this point launched into another speech about how Sherlock was worrying for nothing, but how would that be any different to what he had said before? Now was not the time for talk, now was the time for action to match these words, and Sherlock was placing his total confidence in John that he would do all that he had promised, no matter whatever their Majesty suggested that John should be doing with his time.

'Take over the cooking tonight, will you?' John requested, as he raised his hand in a gesture of farewell, 'I keep thinking about fried rice and chicken for some reason.'

The detective grinned softly but shook his head , 'I know a good Chinese place. You don't want to eat what I cook.'


	28. The secret

**Anote**: warning for suggested drug use

Chapter 28- **The secret**

In the end, Sherlock _did_ remember to pick up a carton of premium teas from the market, but completely forgot about the extra toilet paper.

However, when Mrs. Hudson crept up the stairs to welcome back her favourite lodger and steal a kiss, she pointed at the purchase and asked him when he started drinking tea. Sherlock was a bit distracted when he answered her, but he didn't think what he said quite warranted such a shriek of happiness from the woman.

As quick as a blink, she had squashed him into one of the armchairs while she proceeded to demolish 221B with a broom and duster. Not knowing how quickly Sherlock's "friend" was set to return, Mrs. Hudson quickly drafted Mrs. Turner and her married ones to assist, and for the most part they hid Sherlock's rubbish and chemistry paraphernalia in large plastic sacks and tucked it all in the man's room. Even Molly who was passing by to say hello, was pressed into service to air out the second bedroom and lay out fresh linens and towels.

The detective was lost in his own world during all this, but was grateful for the busyness around him. He didn't feel like talking but appreciated the hum of company all the same.

Sherlock smiled faintly down at the rug, as he recognized another of the many subtle changes that John's presence in his life was causing.

Eventually, it was just Sherlock and his not-housekeeper in the room, and the man re-focused over the tips of his fingers as she flitted around. It was only then he had a bit of an inkling that Mrs. Hudson had the wrong idea, as she filled vases with cheerful yellow carnations which she artfully arranged on the freshly polished surfaces.

'My friend is a man,' he informed her with a frown as he waved away the misty cloud of air freshener that she was now diligently spraying in the corners. 'John is here to help me establish a practice. This...frivolity is wasted on him.'

The woman refused to turn around, 'no harm in making the place look nice, I think. Why don't you clean up and tidy your hair. Do you want me to brush your feathers?'

Clearly, she was not convinced about his explanation. Sherlock couldn't blame her, it was very rare for him to name someone as friend.

'No, Dr. Watson will do it,' he replied in amusement as he heaved himself out his chair, 'he's winged too, by the way.'

She gave him such a happy grin as she took the box of tea that he held out, Sherlock had to smile back ruefully at her enthusiasm.

'I am sure John will appreciate the cleaned flat,' he said quietly when he leaned down and gave her a soft kiss on the cheek, just the way she liked it. 'Good night.'

By the time he returned from the shower, the tea things were all laid out minus the hot water, but the motherly woman had left. The consulting detective wrapped himself up in a soft dressing gown and sank into his favorite chair for study and reflection. Sherlock was rather shocked by the disorder he found rampant in his mind palace and hastily went to work, re-filing and tidying up. He was also stunned by the amount of talking he had done over the last couple of weeks, although that too was perhaps easy explain.

It took about two hours before he was satisfied to return to the land of the living. In that time ,he had received two more provocative texts from his pseudo-girlfriend Irene, which he ignored and an annoyed rambling voicemail from John about a medical exam for his wings that the Queen's physicians insisted on. As John yelled in his message he was quote, "fed up with these blasted tests and with _all_ doctors past, present and future!"

Sherlock shook his head as he saved the message. John's inability to open and close his wings had little bearing on the real reason why he didn't fly, but that was a situation that Sherlock had prioritized to rectify as soon as possible. The real solution lay in John's mind, in a place that no medical doctor could reach.

For the next hour he flicked through the channels, catching up on what was going on in various parts of the world.

In hour four though, he began pacing the living room.

By hour five, he retreated back into his room to dress and pack a small overnight bag, just in case. His passport was still in his trouser pocket.

Of course Sherlock had been startled before at the airport, with the heavy police presence to escort John to the palace, but that had been a knee jerk reaction. It didn't matter to him what her majesty said, Sherlock was not going to "share" his new friend or allow them to be separated for any long stretches of time. It was just...

Sherlock sat back in his chair again with a confused, unhappy look. There had to be some mistake here.

He had expected John to refuse her and choose him, and he was still hoping for this outcome. Over the years, Sherlock used his sharp observational skills to nudge people at crime scenes to his own end, but he never had to do it to John. The small doctor had so far had matched him stride for stride, and word for word in a way that no one had ever done before. Sherlock didn't want to go 'collect' John, and 'manipulate' him back into their agreement. He _would_ if he had to but he didn't want to do that to John, because their relationship was special to him.

Sherlock would allow that John's innate sense of loyalty and duty, was perhaps making it difficult for him to think straight at the moment. They would go spend a few days with the Muellers. That would calm him and give him a chance to figure out what was next.

Sherlock was still staring into space however, when Mycroft found him in the darkened living room. The older man let out a cry of alarm when his brother finally turned to him, with pupils blown wide the size of dinner plates.

'Sweetheart!' Mycroft near shouted in his distress, 'what have you taken?!'

'Sweetheart?' Sherlock sneered in such a ugly tone that it instantly calmed the fear hammering in his brother's heart, 'you haven't called me that since secondary school.'

Still, the government agent looked into the man's pale face and agitatedly felt his forehead.

'Get off,' Sherlock groused, as he pushed him away, 'I didn't take anything. You know very well my trigger is boredom, not anxiety.'

Sherlock had made a space for his sibling on the settee, and the two men sat side by side in the semi dark.

'Are you anxious?'

'Perhaps anxious is not the right word,' Sherlock replied.

'What is the right word?'

Sherlock glared at him in annoyance, 'why are you here?!'

'John requested that I keep you company' Mycroft replied, 'He's with Lestarde picking up his personal things and will be here soon.'

Completely relieved, Sherlock let his face fall into his hands, 'how is he?'

The older man eyes' cut to the man on his left, 'quiet.'

'Not surprising, her majesty might be small in stature but still a formidable woman.'

Mycroft unexpectedly put a hand on his arm, and Sherlock looked across in astonishment. For a long moment the men stared at each other.

'You're different, Sherlock.'

The detective didn't dare pull away and alert his brother to look even closer.

'Good different or bad different?' he joked lightly instead.

'I can make this all go away, if you like,' Mycroft replied softly, 'She has offered John a position and a flat which he has refused, making it clear that he very happily employed as your assistant. I can make him take the new job and leave you in peace. Everything can be as it was.'

Sherlock bowed his head and stared at the tips of his shoes.

'Sherlock, do you have an answer for me?'

'Mycroft, you are aware that John has nightmares about hurting me. Nightmares!' the man replied, 'John would never willingly cause me harm. He would hurt himself before that happened!'

'But we don't know if his control over you will escalate with time! Can we take this risk?!'

'And we don't even know if he is controlling me, in the first place,' Sherlock reasoned calmly, 'it isn't like you to draw conclusions without fact.'

Mycroft snorted, 'Quite. You always do seem to bring out my worse.'

'The fact is that _you're_ the control freak,' Sherlock snarled, 'and in truth I am more wary about your interference than John's in my life. I know very well, that you want me to work at your "company" and as I have said a thousand times, no thank you! I would rather jump on a live grenade.'

Their eyes locked together again, and it was then that Sherlock realised that his efforts to distract his brother had backfired.

'You can just tell me now what you are trying to conceal,' Mycroft requested, folding his arms across his chest.

Of course Sherlock didn't respond, but his sudden tongue tied manner was a dead give away. He really needed to get some more sleep.

'I'm sure this involves John,' Mycroft reasoned as he examined his nails.

Sherlock's right fist clenched where it rested on the settee.

'Perhaps, I should just ask the good doctor what you are hiding,' the older man said archly. Mycroft gave him the eyebrow, when Sherlock suddenly loomed over him with his large wings flared open wide. That trick might make others back down but they had grown up together. Mycroft had unstuck an uncoordinated, gangly teenage Sherlock from enough trees, fences and doorways to be completely unfazed by his wings.

Calmly Mycroft looked up at the man above him, and he could see the intelligence behind Sherlock's eyes, as all the possibilities were weighed and the least troublesome evil selected from a menu of scenarios.

'From my personal experience over the last few weeks,' Sherlock said quietly as he straightened up, 'I believe that some of the mythological aspect of the histories between white and blacked humans are true.'

Mycroft took in a deep breath and exhaled. He had begun to suspect this for some time too.

'And if some of them are true...'

...then perhaps all of it is true.' Mycroft finished as Sherlock stuttered to a halt.

The two of them silently turned over that in their mind.

'Should we not err on the side of caution, then?' Mycroft again suggested.

'There isn't any need,' Sherlock mused as he sat down heavily on the small coffee table, 'John would walk away the moment he became aware of this. Of this, I am certain.'

Sherlock buried his face in his hands again with a strangled sob.

TBC


	29. Sixth sense

**Anote**: Why are there not more hours in the day to spend with my favourite boys?

_Flashback: From my personal experience over the last few weeks,' Sherlock said quietly as he straightened up, 'I believe that some of the mythological aspect of the histories between white and blacked humans are true.'_

_Mycroft took in a deep breath and exhaled. He had begun to suspect this for some time too._

Chapter 29-** Sixth sense**

Only a small sliver of Sherlock's mind was truly focusing on his older brother as the other man stripped off his jacket, rolled up his shirt sleeves and filled his small cheery red kettle with water from the tap.

Soon the appliance was bubbling genially over the Bunsen burner that was designated for that particular use.

Mycroft then resumed his seat near to the armchair that Sherlock had folded his long limbs into. The consulting detective had used the interim time to recover himself and he had a pensive stoic expression on his face, as he stared at his laced fingers.

It said something to Mycroft about Sherlock's attachment to his new friend that he would willingly risk future blackmail into disagreeable boring government assignments, rather than take a course where John might find out about the secret.

Sherlock's eyes flicked up to collide with his.

'Can you tell me about it?' Mycroft asked bluntly.

The detective was taken aback by such a direct approach. However he didn't comment on it further as he concentrated, trying to put the sensation into words, 'Sometimes a person would say that they were thinking of someone who they have not seen in years and suddenly the telephone rings. That is what it feels like that, but a hundred times stronger.'

Mycroft scowled anxiously not liking the sound of this at all.

'What are you saying?' he asked quickly, 'you hear John in your head?'

Sherlock gifted him with a look of scorn, 'of course not. That would be crazy.'

Again the young man struggled trying to find the right way to explain. 'I just feel where John is.'

'And where is he now?'

Sherlock extended his arm and pointed to the left wall so quickly that Mycroft turned his head, half expecting to see the doctor standing there.

The government agent scrambled for his mobile, hitting the speed dial for the Inspector, wanting to check the relative location of the missing duo to Baker Street.

'Jesus,' the older man swore softly in amazement as he finally hung up the phone.

Sherlock stared at him and shrugged. The truth had been tapping on his mind for awhile now and after the first staggering moment when he fully comprehended what was going on, Sherlock had grown accustom to his new sixth sense.

'The information doesn't intrude into my mind,' the young man informed him,'I have to focus if I want to localise him.'

'Can you pinpoint the street they are on now?'

'It's not like a digital readout,' Sherlock replied testily, his mouth puckering in annoyance at these questions.

'Is there more?' Mycroft asked quickly sensing that his brother's temper was starting to fray. 'Can you sense anyone else?'

Sherlock shook his head, 'No, just John'

'Not Aya?'

Again Sherlock shook his head. 'I even constructed a few experiments on board the ship, and they were all negative. I could not find her.'

'Perhaps she is too young,' Mycroft reasoned. 'We need to ask someone else, if they can "sense" John. Didn't John have a friend among the black winged? Harold, I think?'

Sherlock raised a hand to stop him, 'I agree with your systematic search for information but I don't want John alerted to what we are doing. This must be carried out discreetly.'

Even as the young man said the words out loud, a niggling fear began to emerge that it might be better to tell John this before he found out from someone else. Sherlock ruthlessly squashed this idea into oblivion. John was not going to find out, ergo there was no need to tell him anything.

'I will leave it to you then,' Mycroft agreed breaking into his thoughts, 'on the provision that you inform me what you find out. You have enemies Sherlock, who would not hesitate to exploit a potential weak area. Don't become complacent.'

'John is _not_ a weak area,' Sherlock snarled at him in an ugly fashion, hands curling into fists.

'I never said that,' Mycroft said mildly in a placating tone, while he eyed the way that Sherlock's wings came alive suddenly as they flexed powerfully on either side of his brother's slim frame, 'if I could poach him from you, and add him to my staff I would.'

Sherlock snorted loudly, 'You _must_ be delusional. John is loyal to me and only me.'

The two men fell silent as they sat there and stared suspiciously at each other, the same thought seemingly in both their minds. Over the last month their normal paradigm was suspended, and there was surprise at being in a new uncharted country where there was a measure of trust between them.

To cope with this uncomfortable scenario, Mycroft prepared himself a tea using his brother's purchase while Sherlock stood up and began to pace.

They was really only one path in the living room that Sherlock could take without crashing into anything and the edges of his wings harmlessly skimmed centimeters over the tops of chairs, narrowly missing one of Mrs. Hudson's vases.

Mycroft tried to restart the conversation they were having but Sherlock had locked him out. Undaunted, the government agent leisurely sipped his tea and stared meditatively at the wall, as he planned out his week. For sure at the top of the list, he was assigning one of the University historians to do a through report on the interaction between white and black winged humans.

Abruptly Sherlock stopped in the middle of his walk, and looked down at the floorboards.

'What's wrong?' Mycroft asked in concern as his brother remained disconcertingly motionless.

In the quiet that followed they could now hear a commotion below stairs.

'John?'

Sherlock nodded his head briefly, and stood with his back to the door staring out the window. Confirmation was immediately forthcoming as Lestrade's powerful voice boomed up the stairs.

A perfunctory knock later and their guests entered. Lestrade of course came to a sudden halt, as he gawked at the clean surfaces and floral decorations. Comically, he backpedaled to double check the number on the door.

John however, walked in further with his rucksack slung over his shoulder and looked around in interest. 'Well...this is lovely, quite lovely. Honestly Sherlock I was expecting a dump, knowing your habits. Oh hey, there's the skull you told me all about!'

Sherlock turned just as John was staring hesitantly at one of the flower vases, understandably perplexed as to why there were so many colorful bouquets scattered around. The small doctor looked drawn. Hardly surprising given the interview he had just come from.

Lestrade had just sat down next to Mycroft on the settee and fixed himself a cup of tea, when Sherlock walked over and rudely snatched it from his fingers.

'You look like you need this,' Sherlock said softly as he came up behind his friend, offering the hot beverage. John smiled as he looked over his shoulder.

The smile however morphed into a frown and with his free hand, John unexpectedly grabbed Sherlock's chin and tilted it towards the light.

Too late the detective backed away, but not before the doctor noticed the slight tinge of red in his eyes. John was perhaps a little too observant for comfort, considering Sherlock had a secret to conceal.

'She just wanted to meet and offer me employment,' the doctor reassured his new flatmate, incorrectly deducing why Sherlock has been upset, 'Her majesty sends her best wishes. I can't believe you know her. She_ actually_ knows your name. I like William.'

The man squinted at John's mischievous look. 'I prefer to be called Sherlock.'

John sipped his stolen tea to mask his grin.

'Did you see the gallery?'

The doctor nodded his head as he sat on the window ledge. In the course of the evening, the Queen had taken him away to see her private gallery of family portraits. John of course knew his history well enough to know some of the royal family in the distant past were white winged, as they were a very powerful group in their day. But he was no relation of course, as his white mutation was not transmitted genetically unlike Sherlock's and everyone else. It still had been beyond cool to see the pictures though.

'And what did you think of her majesty, herself?'

'Short but intimidating,' John blurted out without thinking.

Sherlock sat in the window too, and curled in his large wing effectively screening them from the rest of the room.

The detective wouldn't say he was particular skilled at navigating social interactions not the way he saw other people doing. He however felt as though the way they were just silently staring at each was supposed to be odd, but it wasn't; not to him.

He left it up to John to say something or break their eye contact, but the good doctor just yawned up at him. It warmed a place deep inside Sherlock that the other man always seemed so comfortable around him. This whole notion of having friends suddenly didn't seem to be such a bad idea at all.

_No wonder people collect them._

'I feel as though I could sleep for a week,' John murmured as his head connected with the cold window pane with soft tap. Hesitant at first, Sherlock brought in his wing closer to draw the other man to him, causing John to slump into his chest as he drifted off into the soothing blankness of sleep.


	30. Airbender

**Anote: **I was writing this while on a movie soundtrack binge. I was just caught by the violins in 'Flow like water' from the avatar last airbender movie. I recommend a listen.

Chapter 30- **Airbender**

As per habit in stressful or unfamiliar situations, John awoke with a mental gasp of air. In the next second though, soothing memory flooded over the rough blankness, and his mind made all the connections.

He was in Sherlock's flat.

More specifically he was in a bedroom, lying face down on top the covers, still fully clothed except for his shoes. Leisurely John stretched, and in so doing he passed his fingers over the high quality bedding materiel. He had never felt anything so soft and smooth, and vaguely he wondered what it cost.

Inevitably his eyelids drooped and his mind drifted lazily from one topic to the next, descending softly back into sleep, when an image rolled into his head like an ugly patch of tumbleweed, and stuck there until it drove him to full awareness.

With a frustrated sigh, John finally scrunched over on to his side to face the closed bedroom door but was startled when a sharp flat square poked him in his rib cage. Frantically, he picked up the object to investigate only to realise it was a mobile phone.

With a swipe of his thumb the device came alive, and informed him that it was a few minutes after one. He had lost his mobile during the kidnapping, so most likely this must be Sherlock's.

Sherlock.

The memory of the man's red rimmed eyes came back into focus.

To everyone else the detective was all sharp edges and even sharper words, and of course John had been on the receiving end of these more unlikable aspects resulting from his friend's Asperger's. But the doctor had spent a great deal of time with Sherlock to see beyond all that, and this wasn't the first time that the slim young man had tried to hide the fact that he had been emotionally distraught and frustrated to the point of tears.

In the quiet of John's mind, sometimes he wondered if the other man regretted doing this. If Sherlock regretted letting someone in to his highly controlled lifestyle, because unlike objects that tended to stay where you put them, people didn't follow these rules and sometimes they left, and didn't come back. Then for someone like his new friend, things were messy and horrible.

John wondered too if Sherlock was even aware that he tracked his movements when he walked across a room.

He would be patient. With time, Sherlock would see that he wasn't going anywhere, and that he was perfectly happy with his amazing zillion thread Egyptian cotton sheets.

Yes, the Queen and everyone else in fact had an opinion about what he should be doing with his life, but _he_ wanted to be doing something exciting not just existing. Sherlock was the only one who seemed to respect that and offer him opportunities to lead the life he wanted.

With another sigh, John peered at the door in the gloom just listening. He couldn't hear anything, but one in the morning was a mite early for his perpetual night owl companion to be in bed.

As such, the doctor reached over and turned on his nightstand lamp, thinking that if Sherlock was awake he would come across and investigate the bar of light under his door. Again he strained his ears, trying to pick out the sounds of bare footsteps on wood.

His heart almost jumped out of his chest when the mobile buzzed sharply in his hand, signally an incoming message.

_John? SH_

The doctor grinned happily down at the tiny screen.

**I was just thinking of you. Is this your phone? JW  
**

_Really? Nightmare again?_

**Nah...I just woke up. What about you?**

_It is one of my old phones, and no, you are not giving me money for it._

**Why are you up?**

_Thinking._

**About what?**

John frowned as no explanatory text came through.

**Should I meet you in the kitchen? Do you want some tea?**

_I stepped out._

**Mind Palace?**

_No._

**Sherlock! It's 1 in the morning.**

_I needed better acoustics._

John grinned again. He had seen the stand and music case in the corner last night and had wondered.

His face fell though as he suddenly realized that he was alone again. He fingered the touch screen wondering what to say. Would it sound completely needy to ask Sherlock when he was coming back?

He laughed ruefully as the next text that came through was a street address.

A quick face wash with a bathroom stop and he was already through the door, dressed in a brand new jacket which was hanging on one of the pegs by the door. Judging from its size (relative to Sherlock's lengthy torso) the fashionable black leather garment had been purchased for him.

John gritted his teeth in embarrassment as he felt around in the deep pockets where there was a house key, and some money, but eventually he forced a pleasant smile on his face. Yes, it gnawed at his pride that he had to take handouts until he got his feet under him, but at least he could show some proper gratitude for Sherlock's care .

His forced smile soon curved in a genuine one though, as the cool crisp London air hit him hard in the face. There were very people and even fewer cars about as the last of the bar crawlers made their way home, to get some sleep for work in the morning.

It was really good to be back, even though it was freezing. His feathers however, automatically shifted and expanded to trap warm layers of air across his back, but as for his fingers he had to keep them deep in his pockets.

Of course he missed all his friends from the ship but it was a relief to be alone and just be John Watson again, retired army doctor, and not the white winged prisoner that had been rescued.

A shadow danced unexpectedly at the corner of his eye, and he turned his head to investigate. There was no mistaking the way the smudge of darkness pulled back into the alleyway it was hiding in.

After the third instance of this, John stopped and stared down at his shoes, shaking his head slightly in aggravation.

'Look, you don't want to rob me,' the doctor said almost conversationally, 'I am not in the mood for something so trite at this hour. I just got in yesterday and I am still horribly jet lagged from being kidnapped by Asian smugglers. Come back next week.'

A stunned silence seemed to emanate from the alleyway. A drunk who was sitting on a bench looked up at John and cried encouragingly, 'That's the spirit!'

The two of them stared hard at the patch of darkness but no further movement could be seen. Apparently ,London's criminals were not used to being speeched off by their "clients".

'Amateurs,' John snorted derisively under his breath.

He walked on but kept to the busier streets until he came upon Sherlock's address. The soaring orchestra music erupting from the open church windows drove away all memory of his early morning stalker. It was something later on John would bitterly regret.

In the meantime, John struggled to figure out where he had heard the piece before. It wasn't the typical Anglican hymn that John was familiar with for sure, but Sherlock was right about acoustics as he eagerly stuck his head into a window. In an age where there were no amplifiers or speakers, church halls were specially designed to trap, magnify and funnel sound for maximum effect. The ingenuity of the early architects was sort of amazing, when you stopped to think about it.

The doctor craned his head in as he tried to catch a glimpse of the band up at the front, but it was the wrong angle entirely.

Now John had no problem with church per say. He went dutifully for years as a child, but the staring thing just got old after awhile, and he dropped the habit because as you can guess, a white winged person sitting in a pew was enough to interrupt an entire mass. Just like their appearance in the royal family, there were quite enough white winged popes and bishops back in the day to fill the entire hall.

John walked around the heavy front doors and pushed, wanting to get in and sit at the back. However when they wouldn't budge, he checked to see if the lock was closed. Thinking that the mechanism was just old, he used his shoulder and tried again, and this time the door flew open.

* * *

Sherlock was surrounded by his fellow violinists, but he wasn't playing at the moment as he concentrated on tracking John's steps in his head. He could feel the shift in the doctor's position from Baker street to the East as he made his way North to the church. Sherlock was of course, excited to be able to take further observations on the phenomenon that existed between them. He would have to thank Mycroft's minion (_what was her name again? Unimportant. She didn't use her real name at work_) for the phone call.

Having accepted the existence of his extra sense, the detective being a scientist had been naturally curious about all its aspects, such as range and intensity. However on this occasion as with all the others, to Sherlock's mind it didn't feel any stronger or weaker...the sensation just was there. In some instances when he had been experimenting, he had rounded corners and barreled straight into the doctor (having to tune down his other senses like hearing and sight, to be able to focus).

His lack of success in controlling the sensation was disappointing, but he was comforted by the knowledge that up till now there was no discernible range. No matter how far he was from John, every time he opened his senses he was able to pinpoint which direction the man was, relative to where he was standing. Even when John was on the ship and he was on the HMS Ocean, and there had been miles of open water between them, his new sense had steered him in the right direction as sure as the north star.

Sherlock's mind put the analysis to one side, and brought forward another one of the permutations under consideration.

Could John control him?

This was a hard one to even test, because of the strength of their relationship. Yes they disagreed, but he had found himself succumbing to John's way of thinking on occasion. When they were at the mansion together for instance, John had persuaded him to reduce his smoking habit. No one had been able to do that before, but John had been there to distract him from the terrible cravings he suffered, by relentlessly requesting stories of his adventures.

In the end, he had forgotten all about smoking as John stared at him in wide eyed wonder and jealously. Sherlock would give up a lot more than smoking, to continue to have John's worshipful regard of his abilities.

There were other things too beside the smoking, like those yucky vitamins that John was making him take.

_Why those and not Gummies? I will switch out the bottle in his bag._

But these were smaller concessions to wipe out the frown on John's face, and get him focused again on being amazed by his brain power and the Work. There had to be a way to test John's influence on him.

_What is something that I would not do? What is something that crosses the line? __ Hurting a small child?_

Sherlock mentally slapped himself in the head at the stupid idea. It had to be something within the realm of possibilities that John would actually ask him to do. The doctor would never order him to do that!

He let this line of inquiry go, and his mind wandered to another area which he had shied away from in the past, more than once.

From what little he was able to gather about his winged mutation, John was also supposed to be able to sense where he was too, but so far that wasn't materialising.

_Why was that? __Is something wrong with me? _

The memory of Harold and John laughing together on the ship came in his head before he could stop it, and Sherlock kicked the seat infront of him like a petulant toddler. Harold would be here in England soon for a visit (and to be discreetly observed in a series of controlled tests) but of course Sherlock wished that this wasn't really necessary, and that Harold would go jump in the Thames.

But just as Sherlock was busy, uncharitably plotting how to minimize John's interaction with the friendly black winged Australian, the doctor fell through the door and tripped, sprawling up along the tiles in a heap.

Sherlock didn't think.

It was a good thing that his larger than normal wings usually stuck in him in the back of the group, so when he jumped on to the edge of his chair and launched himself into the air, the sudden opening of his wings only scattered all the music sheets.

It was a near thing, as he didn't quite have enough lift to get him airborne, but he was strong enough to twist in midair to get him that extra push, and he glided down the aisle in a long graceful arc.

John's face was beet red in embarrassment, as he glanced over the edge of Sherlock's wing to observe the man's fellow band members, who as one had risen to their feet. The late night musical enthusiasts pointed and gawked as the detective gently descended and knelt at John's side, lowering his wings protectively around and over the smaller man.

'I'm so sorry,' the doctor mumbled as Sherlock gripped him around his waist and pulled him into a sitting position, 'I am alright, you go on back. I will just...be over here.'

John crawled away on his hand and knees to hide in a pew, which of course was ridiculous as the tops of his white wings poked over the edge.

Sherlock smiled fondly at the snowy white protrusions. John was a remarkable individual, but could be completely absurd at times.


	31. Exploitation

**Anote:** Taking a little break from the mythology and doing a few scenes of daily life. Thanks to everyone for the encouragement.

Chapter 31- **Exploitation**

_One week later_

Sherlock dived through the door without so much of a knock.

'Where are they?!' he thundered down at Lestrade's bent head.

The inspector ignored the excitable detective with practiced ease, as he continued to write up his reports, 'Where is what?'

In the meantime John followed behind, and gently closed the door that Sherlock had almost torn off its hinges.

'All the new cases you have butchered, of course!' Sherlock sneered down at the Inspector with annoyed rattle of his dark wings.

Lestrade just sighed quietly, but obediently he pulled open his drawer to hand over the stack of unsolved cases, all neatly wrapped in twine.

With a happy yelp, Sherlock fell on the files like a dog on a bone, and hurriedly he retreated to a corner to sort and stack to his heart's content.

'Boring...'

'Boring...'

Files went flying as Sherlock tossed the uninteresting ones down at his feet.

'Really, George?! You think my talents should be used on something as pedestrian as insurance fraud?

'Boring...

'Boring..'

'_Very_ Boring...'

'Oye!' Lestrade cried out to catch the detective's attention, 'not that one in the blue file. That's important.

'It's a robbery,' Sherlock whined unhappily, his feathers drooping in disappointment. 'Not even a four.'

Lestrade gave him a stern look, 'Please, as a favor to me.'

'What you mean is that something has been stolen from some infernal politician or business man who is probably contributing to someone's re-election campaign,' Sherlock deduced nastily with narrowed eyes, even as he retrieved the previously discarded blue folder and began re-reading.

'Can I talk to you?' John murmured to the Inspector in a low voice as his friend lost himself in the case.

'Sherlock, why don't you go in the squad room? We've got a story board set up for you with the robbery,' Lestrade announced.

It took a few moments but eventually the request penetrated and the detective stood up, never lifting his eyes from the folder as he walked out the room as if zombified. Exasperated, John hurried to open the door to prevent a collision with the glass door and Sherlock's head.

'I didn't sign up to open doors for you!' John informed Sherlock's narrow back.

The detective waved absently over his shoulder, 'I'll have the chicken.'

'So what's on your mind?' the Inspector asked curiously when John had closed the door and the two of them watched the young man through the glass, arranging the crime scenes photos in patterns that only his brilliant mind could see, 'everything settling in well in Baker street?'

'Some ups and some downs,' John admitted with a grimace, 'but that's life. We had a row about the proper functionality of the dining table, so we had to half it with masking tape.

'And how's that working out?'

John gave him a pained look, 'it's a bleeding good thing that I have a strong stomach.'

Greg grinned down gleefully at him but that changed when John pulled out a sheet of paper, where he had neatly typed and organised Sherlock's new consultation fees.

'What the hell?' Greg spluttered out as he shook the paper in his hand, 'What are these?'

'You know what they are,' John said stonily, his irritation increasing at this reaction, although he was expecting it.

'But Holmes is rich! he laughed in a flustered manner. 'He doesn't need the money.'

'That's not the point!' John said sharply, and it was only then that the Inspector looked up from the document, realizing that they were not on the same friendly footing as before.

'Sherlock talks about you a lot, you know?' the doctor informed him icily.

'Really?' he snorted in a bitter sarcastic voice, 'anything good?'

'He says you are the most tenacious officer in the force. He says you are worth ten policemen combined.'

'He said that?' Greg repeated in a shocked way. 'Blimey.'

'How do you think people view Sherlock when they see how you exploit his talents?'

John's calm style of delivery, just served to drive the knife in deep and Lestrade felt it all the way to the bone.

'I do not exploit him!' he volleyed back almost immediately, springing aggressively to his feet.

John counted it on his fingers, 'no payment, no sick days, no medical insurance. I am sure you treat your stapling machine with more care. '

The two men came together toe to toe.

'Perhaps we should take a breather here...' Lestrade hissed in a tight voice, 'before we say something or do something really stupid. I care about that man as much as you do. If I felt less then I could probably have a rational response for you.'

'Fine,' John hissed back in return , 'Fix it..., and don't give me that crap about low budget. He deserves better that this.'

John was about to walk out the door, when Lestrade called and he turned around.

'Freak's back in town!' a lady's voice unexpectedly carried across the office. John was so astonished when he realised that she was addressing Sherlock that he could only stand there and gape.

'Officer Donovan. Good evening to you also,' Sherlock said with mock politeness that was a stark counterpoint to her rude greeting.

'Why are you here?'

'I was invited,' Sherlock retorted as he continued arranging his photographs as if he didn't have a care on the world.

'It's like watching a trained monkey,' her male companion commented, and a few of the others in the outer room were starting to laugh and shake their heads in unison.

John hustled over, winding his way between the cramped desks. Of course, everyone started pointing and whispering in amazement when they caught sight of his white wings, but John ignored all offers of those trying to catch his attention or shake his hand.

'Christ,' the Inspector muttered and he stalked behind the doctor with a bit of a sheepish expression on his face. The older man couldn't believe that this was actually happening infront of John. Had the doctor been right? Was the acrimonious way the consulting detective was treated by the staff, partly his fault?

In the meantime, Anderson jumped to attention when the doctor tapped his shoulder.

'Hey, it's you again,' the criminologist said in eager surprise, 'I don't think we were properly introduced. My name is Anderson.'

'No, we weren't introduced. I'm John,' the doctor said with a feral smile as he shook hands, 'John Watson.'

The sharp headbutt that Anderson then received took everyone by surprise.

'God!' the forensic scientist cried as blood trickled down his chin, 'he 'roke my 'ose, he 'roke my 'ose. Arrest 'im!'

'I'll snap your head off like a chicken, if you _ever_ address my friend that way again!' John shouted, as the rest of the Yard jumped on the man to separate the two combatants (...well just John really who was doing his utmost best to reach Anderson again)

'Take the doctor to cool off in the drunk tank,'Lestrade ordered pointing in one direction, 'for God's sake Anderson, just tilt your head back and pinch it. Sally take him to the men's room and get some ice on that.'

Quiet reigned again as the two parties separated, and Lestrade spared a look for Sherlock who had a completely flabbergasted expression on his face.

'Come down and collect him in five minutes,' Lestrade said in a tight voice, 'let me talk to him for a bit.'

* * *

Due to the requisite limited access points, it was understandably dark in the area where they had a row of holding cells for minor offenses. Sherlock carefully crept down the stairs still clutching his precious case folders against his chest.

'Geoffrey?'

'Over here!' Lestrade called out from around the corner.

Sherlock passed by all the holding cells which held a few people, all who were similarly contorted in pressing their face against the bars trying to get a good look at John, who was unconsciously doing his glow in the dark routine again. The small doctor had opened his wings, and they now fluttered gently behind him, as he stood in the back of his empty cell, pointingly ignoring the Inspector's little talk.

'How is raging bull doing?' Sherlock joked lightly.

'You talk to him,' Lestrade responded in an aggravated tone, but John had already turned around at the sound of his friend's voice.

'Is this cell locked?' the detective snapped angrily, even as John threaded his arms through the bars of his cell and comfortably propped himself up on his elbows.

'It's fine,' John answered, 'I shouldn't have hit him, what's his name? Anderson? but I am _not_ going to apologise, so I hope that's not what you were going to say.'

'I see no reason why you should apologise,' Sherlock agreed conversationally, as he proceeded to open the cell door with the keys that he had just pick-pocketed from the Inspector, 'and I must commend you on a well executed head butt.'

Lestrade shook his head, both at the theft and Sherlock's version of a proper "talk". However, he said nothing as Sherlock tossed the keys back at him. The inspector was fairly certain that no one would even assail Sherlock with a bad look, from now on.

'Bicycles!' the consulting detective then bizarrely shouted at them.

'What?'

Sherlock waved the blue case file, and the Inspector hurriedly got out his notebook to write down the flood of information that fell from the young man's lips.

'But how do you know the paint transfer was from a bicycle?' Lestrade questioned, as he wrote furiously.

Sherlock gave him such a familiar look of astonished scorn that it made him smile. It was good to have the man back in London again.

'Look, Sherlock,' the older man stammered out unsurely as he closed his book, 'About what just happened upstairs...'

However, Sherlock cut him off by slapping the case file hard against the man's chest, 'Bicycles! I need to examine all the bicycles of your suspects! Hurry up! Why are you still standing there waffling ...'

'Because I am trying to apologise!' Lestrade yelled out, waving his arms around in frustration, 'can you give me a minute?!'

'There is _no_ need...'

This time it was John who interrupted, 'Yes, there is need. No one should talk to you like that Sherlock! No one! Lestrade, as their superior officer...'

Sherlock reached out and covered both their mouths firmly with each hand.

'I know where these sentiments are coming from,' he eventually said in a quiet way, 'On occasion, I wake up and I feel exactly the same way about you two. And if you tell anyone I said that I will disown your existence. Alright? Everyone cheerful again?'

The two men held silent, nodded reluctantly and Sherlock released them. 'Good. Enough blasted talking! Lestrade, you have your assignment. Come John, let us away to the morgue! There is work to be done!'


	32. One night in autopsy

Flashback:_ 'Freak's back in town!' a lady's voice unexpectedly carried across the office. John was so astonished when he realised that she was addressing Sherlock that he could only stand there and gape._

Chapter 32- **One night in autopsy**

(...continued directly from the last chapter)

'Sure you're okay?' John murmured as they wound their way out of the Yard, and the short distance to St. Bart's which housed the morgue.

Sherlock sighed dejectedly, 'Focus, John. I know it's only a four, but unfortunately, things do not always go our way. A better case will come along soon.'

'No, Sherl!' the doctor cried out as he grasped his arm to turn him around, 'I meant about...'

And here the detective looked down, his intense blue eyed gaze boring into his.

'You're not a freak, Sherlock,' John told him firmly, reaching out to gently hold on to either side of the man's slender torso with his hands, 'you are in fact, the most ...remarkable person I have ever met.'

The light in the detective's eyes momentarily dimmed, and quickly the doctor prepared himself, knowing that he was about to be deduced.

'You've been called worse at some time or the other in your life,' Sherlock shot off, 'probably when you were in secondary school; not so much in medical school. This isn't the first time you have tried to knock someone into next week, hence the reason why your parents put you into sports at an early age. You're moderately intelligent so it would not have taken you too long to realise that the harassment was motivated by jealously of your wings, more than any true meanness of spirit. However, you still chalked up an impressive amount of time in detention, not willing to stand by idly and let anyone be bullied.'

Eventually, the doctor let out a huff of laughter, amazed as usual by his friend's "talent".

'Did I get anything wrong?' Sherlock asked eagerly.

'No, you did not,' John assured him with a fond smile, 'and you_ say_ you don't "get" people.'

'I don't,' Sherlock countered firmly with a frown, 'but I "get" you.'

John smiled happily and he took in a deep breath of contentment, as Sherlock tugged on his arm to pull him along, 'yeah, you do.'

'But why didn't you tell Anderson and company to stop it, or something?' John groused, as Sherlock continued to energetically drag him forward as though he was a badly behaved puppy. 'This looks like it's an ongoing feud and I know with a few words, you could very well reduce them to a crawling blubbering mass of jelly, if you wanted to.'

A small satisfied smile hovered around Sherlock's lips, as if pleased by John's deductions.

'So ...why don't you?' John pressed, as no reply seemed forthcoming.

John started with sudden understanding. 'You do it for Greg, don't you? You hold your tongue out of respect for him.'

Sherlock looked across at him in confusion, 'Greg?'

The doctor sighed in exasperation, not quite believing that Sherlock didn't know the Inspector's first name. However, he was just about to open the door to autopsy when Sherlock stopped him.

'Wait, we need to talk.'

John nodded and then began to fidget as Sherlock just stared at him expressionlessly.

'I have noticed that you have a long eye when it comes to the women,' the young man suddenly blurted out.

'The women?!' John snorted loudly in amused surprise, 'Okay, that's different. Do you even know what that means?'

Sherlock flushed a dull pink which gave away his inexperience in that area.

'Of course I do!' the detective insisted, 'and that is why we are talking about this. Are you...looking for female companionship? Answer me!'

'Cheese on toast! Why the bloody hell are we talking about this?' John asked, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment, glad they were alone, 'Well yeah...I haven't gone out on a date, in forever. I miss a good snog.'

'A date?' the younger man repeated in awed surprise, as if he never heard the word before. The doctor poked him hard in the side, as Sherlock stared off vaguely in the distance.

'I want you to know, John,' Sherlock lectured sternly as he returned to the here and now,'although we share many things, Molly is my pathologist; mine! You are not to distract her from the Work with any nonsense talk of movies and food and ...whatever.'

'But what if _she_ wants to distract me with movies and food and... whatever?' John shot back with an impish grin.

The expression on Sherlock's face looked liked he had just swallowed a large, cut lemon.

'Teasing! Remember we were talking about this,' John assured him, 'teasing is a type of humor where you...'

...BORING!' the other man interrupted, turning around so violently that John got a face full of feathers.

The doctor rubbed his lips trying to dislodge some of the fluffy bits. 'I remember you told me that Ms. Hooper is your scientist colleague who will be doing the DNA analysis of the feathers, but I didn't know you changed your mind about just being friends.'

Sherlock looked back at him in astonishment, like he had suddenly grown a second head. 'What are you nattering on and on about? Is this more of the teasing?'

John nibbled on his lip unsurely at his question. Sherlock had gone out of his way to warn him to keep his distance. His big brained colleague probably didn't realise the mixed signals that he was sending out. This should be interesting, to say the least.

However, the doctor only managed to just catch a flash of red from the corner of his eye when the door opened.

'He's a friend,' Sherlock called out, as way of introduction, while he leisurely hung up his coat on one of the pegs, indicating that he was well acquainted with the morgue.

John felt his chin drop to the floor as the woman in question crept out into the harsh overhead lights.

'Wow,' the two medical practitioners remarked as they faced each other, a reaction to which of course Sherlock naturally scowled, and made a great show of noisily turning the pages in his case folders.

At Molly's wordless gesture, John approached her and opened his wings for her to examine. The pathologist then brightly smiled down at him, and John felt emboldened to reach out his fingers and run them through her feathers. Red feathers were not as rare as white, but it wasn't something you saw everyday either.

'If John gives you his phone number, please lose it Molly,' Sherlock interjected in his usual bland tone, 'he's currently shopping around for a girlfriend and just about anything with a pulse would do.'

The horrified expressions on their two faces told Sherlock that his attempt at teasing was not successful.

'Not good?'

'Yeah!' the doctor choked out, 'A bit not good!'

John knew that Sherlock didn't really mean to verbally slap him across the face. If their situations were reversed, he wouldn't want anyone touching his woman's feathers, either.

The doctor took two large steps back.

'Excuse him, Ms Hooper,' John apologised, 'I have been trying to teach him about teasing but that's not going anywhere. I am John Watson, and your virtue is safe from my philandering ways.'

The woman smiled shyly, 'you can call me Molly, and I am glad to hear that my virtue is safe. I don't think my boyfriend would like hearing all this.'

'You have a boyfriend?' Sherlock asked sharply, 'whatever for?!'

John glanced at him in male sympathy, as the other man unfolded his large wings in his agitated state of mind.

In the meantime, the poor girl blushed under the intensity of his disapproving stare. 'His name is Jim, and he works in IT. He's a big fan of your website.'

Sherlock was not swayed by this attempt to mollify him.

'Oh, I see you were just leaving,' John jumped in, trying to ease the uncomfortable feeling in the room as he pointed at Molly's bag and coat, which were on one of the clean examination tables. 'May we walk you out?'

'She has a boyfriend, 'Sherlock spat out nastily, 'are you deaf or just pathetically desperate?!'

'Oh no, I just came in,' Molly jumped in this time to save John. 'I work the night shift. Thank you for offering, though.'

John gave his friend another glance and their eyes connected briefly.

_She's winged, works the graveyard shift at the morgue, and does experiments for you. Should of snapped this one up, Sherlock._

_Oh shut up! _

'Are there any interesting dead bodies, today?' Sherlock inquired crossly, as he aggressively opened one drawer after the other.

'I just came in, Sherlock,' she reminded him gently.

'You see!' Sherlock crowed in triumphant, 'this Tim is already distracting you! Let's fire him and be done with his annoying presence!'

'Jim, not Tim' the doctor corrected under his breath. 'Be nice, Sherlock.'

'I was working on the DNA analysis,' she assured her old friend as he continued to frown at her, 'I was so excited that I couldn't wait for the sequence data, so I did a few with micro satellites.'

The two men eagerly followed her over to a large media screen, as she accessed the file. The graph they then examined look like a two pronged fork. One prong was thick and untidy, and the other in contrast consisted of one long slender line.

'Some explanation for the non-medical persons in the room, if you please,' Sherlock requested sourly, as the other two stared transfixed by what they were seeing.

'This branch of the tree is all the black winged samples,' Molly explained patiently, pointing at the thick line, 'it means that you are more related to each other than to anyone else who is winged.'

Sherlock nodded his head. That seemed reasonable.

'Is that John?' he then asked, gesturing at the thin line on the other branch.

'No, that's me,' the woman replied, 'I had to use some of my DNA to root the tree.'

'Where's John?'

'Oh well...' Molly started hesitantly, noting the despondent look on the doctor's face. He already knew.

'My DNA doesn't amplify using standard winged primers, so don't even bother to try,' John explained softly, 'Even genetically, I am alone.'

The small man looked so suddenly crestfallen, that Sherlock didn't know what to say.

'Can I ask you for a differential on the results of my last autopsy?' Molly piped up.

John looked around at her, startled but pleased.

'I don't practice much anymore,' he warned his new acquaintance, 'don't know if I would be much good.'

'Oh that's not what I heard!' she said, exchanging a knowing look with Sherlock as if they had a secret.

'Don't listen to him,' John said falling in her trap, as they poured over the electronic tablet reading the report, 'Sherlock exaggerates.'

An unexpected wave of affection for his two friends, drew Sherlock closer.

Molly had done a fantastic job deflecting John's mood, and Sherlock already knew that the noble doctor would respect his wishes, and not make Molly one of his conquests. The detective stopped short of actually embracing them though, but instead very briefly enfolded them with one wing, before tucking it away. The appendage was quite large enough to easily encircle both his smaller companions.

Sherlock eyes suddenly darted around reflexively, sure that he heard the door softly close behind them. He mentally shrugged when he realized that no one had entered, and the incident faded from his mind.


	33. Unsolved

**Anote**: This short domestic scene is written around the explosion in the episode the Great Game

Chapter 33- **Unsolved**

For the tenth time in the last hour, John eyed Sherlock's closed bedroom door.

In all their dangerous adventures so far, the young man always seemed so unflappable. Bullets could be whizzing past; Asian criminals surrounding you screaming for blood; hordes of the undead aka the British version of paparazzi stalking you, and through it all, Sherlock was by turns annoyed or amused. But this evening was a different scenario. Then again, being attacked so violently in the place you call home, could be very frightening.

The unbearable idea that his friend was scared and alone, drove John to his feet and he hurried over to the door. He would knock softly, just in case the man was actually asleep.

'Sherlock,' he called opening the door just a crack, 'the window people have gone, and everywhere is nice and tidy. Why don't you come out and sit with me?'

No response came from within but John couldn't hear the distinctive sounds of him sleeping either.

'It's lonely out here,' the doctor tried a different tack, but still to no avail. Not to be daunted, John pushed open the door further and cautiously peeked around the door edge. He was startled by the fact that Sherlock was looking over his shoulder at him.

'Can I come in?' John asked automatically. That question seemed to rouse the detective from the melancholy that he had fallen into and he extended his arm to him. 'You never have to ask.'

Of course John flushed in pleasure, but always with a hint of surprise whenever Sherlock singled him out in his words and manner like this. He was a humble soul, and didn't really quite fathom why such a great man would favor his company so exclusively.

Walking over to the bed where Sherlock sat, John looped a supportive arm across his shoulders only to draw back in fright when the soft skin of his forearm was grazed by minute shards of glass.

Sherlock smiled in fond amusement when his friend started fussing around him like a concerned mother hen. He didn't protest, as the good doctor wrangled him into a spare chair and began carefully combing out all the bits of glass from his hair and dark feathers. His amusement abruptly turned to one of sharp pain though, when he reflected on what would have happened if John had not gone for a walk, moments before the explosion blew through their shared flat.

'Maybe we should go to the hospital,' the small man fretted, 'I don't know if I can get all the glass like this.'

'It's fine,' Sherlock murmured. 'You are doing an excellent job, as always.'

'No, it's not fine!' John insisted, too keyed up to note the rare praise that Sherlock didn't pay to anyone. 'We can't take chances like this. What if one of the shards cuts you and you don't realise. You could develop an infection! What if...'

Sherlock stood up rapidly, cutting him off, 'Some fresh air might be good.'

Relieved at this easy compliance, John started making preparations to leave and was confused when Sherlock began herding him towards an open window.

'Oh wait...are we going to..?'

There were many times that John lamented at Sherlock's emotional detachment but not in this case. His lack of reaction helped the doctor compose himself to the admittedly oddish sensation, of being held so closely by another man in flight.

However, as Sherlock gained the height he wanted over the city, he frowned when John squirmed restlessly in his arms, 'You are not comfortable? I would rather that we not be separated at the moment. Try to relax.'

'No, I'm great!' John countered brightly. 'This is all...great!'

Sherlock grinned softly, 'what you are is a liar.'

All in all, sunset wasn't the best time for flying as the fading sun made fun of distance and perspective, but it was the time of day when the city showed to its very best. Gone were London's harsh edges and reflections. Now, she was draped in dewy red oranges and soft light.

'Do you want to talk about the case?' John asked, breaking the peaceful silence.

'No.'

'Is there even a case?'

Sherlock didn't respond as he ducked around a tall building, trying to reach the relatively flatter and safer (for flying) landscape of the urban sprawl surrounding the cluttered city.

Worriedly, John tried again, 'Lestrade asked me if all is well.'

'What?!'

Just that morning, the concerned Inspector had pulled him aside to discuss Sherlock's atypical behavior of late. Usually, according to him, Sherlock was always a bundle of nervous energy when a mystery was afoot, not this contemplative lethargic creature who didn't say a word.

'I've never seen you working before, but he has,' John explained carefully, 'Tell me about this pink mobile phone he called you in to examine.'

The way Sherlock stiffened all around him told John that he had hit a sore spot, but some instinct told the doctor not to push any further. It was out there, and Sherlock would speak when he was ready.

In the meantime John craned his head, enjoying the sight of London's night lights turning on one by one. A little boy riding his bike in the street at a breakneck speed, perhaps struggling to make in by his curfew, waved up at them and John obliged by waving in return.

'The pink mobile is a replica from a case before I knew you,' Sherlock suddenly revealed in a quiet way, 'an unsolved one. One of many...all in a row...all in a blasted row. Someone is taunting me, John!'

'Everyone has a rough patch' John said bracingly, strangely moved that Sherlock trusted him not only with his physical hurts but his mental ones as well, 'It will pass.'

Sherlock grimaced, 'I even let General Shan and her Black Lotus slip through my fingers.'

John raised an eyebrow, 'I trust that you are not counting that as a failure though. I consider that one of your most brilliant successes.'

His words of warm praise finally penetrated all the way through Sherlock's mood, and the young man smiled smugly. 'Yes. Benefits were achieved in that investigation which were not anticipated. We have arrived.'

John looked around curiously as they descended. They had reached not a hospital or clinic, but what looked like a modestly wealthy neighborhood. There were not sprawling grounds and ostentatious mansions however, but tastefully built homes with artistic and historical finishes.

'Are we visiting someone?' the doctor interjected in concern. He may not have flown for awhile but it's not to say he had forgotten, and from the angle of their descent they were going to land not at the person's front door, but in the back. And if they weren't careful they were going to land in the ...

John gasped as Sherlock let him go and he gently tumbled into a soft outdoor chair. Immediately, he threw his hands over his head as Sherlock drew his wings in close to his body and dived into the pool, spaying water everywhere.

'Are you insane?' the doctor hissed, as he jumped to his feet looking around furtively, 'you are scattering glass in the water! For God's sake, let's go before someone calls the police. Do you even know this house?'

'Yes, he knows this house,' a familiar voice drawled from behind in the shadowy darkness.

'Oh...hey Mycroft,' John said as innocently as he could manage with Sherlock doing a lazy backstroke all up and down the pool. 'We were in the neighborhood. Great house.'

'Contrary to what _some_ people might say, I am always pleased to see you both,' the government agent assured him as he waved away the doctor's attempt to smooth over their unexpectedly arrival. 'Considering all that has happened in the last few hours, it is good to see you up and about. Your flat has been repaired?'

'Yes, thank you for sending over those workmen so quickly but you need to get someone to drain your pool. Sherlock had some glass in his feathers.'

'He is alright?' Mycroft mouthed as Sherlock slowly turned over and over like a fat walrus without a care in the world.

The doctor nodded but then shrugged. Mycroft interpreted that to mean that yes, Sherlock was fine physically, but was not sure about the rest of him. It didn't matter. Mycroft could recognise the signs of a sulky baby brother.

'John, would you happen to have time to assist me in a work problem?' Mycroft said smoothly as he sipped at a mug of tea that he had been having before the pair had fallen in on him, 'I have already asked Sherlock and I have been ...rebuffed.'

A curly head poked out from under the water, and Sherlock glared at his sibling with narrowed eyes.

'If it would be convenient?' the older man insisted, pointedly ignoring the incendiary stare of annoyance that was being directed at him. John didn't respond but winced in anticipation. What was Mycroft doing? He knew Sherlock didn't share.

Out of the corner of his eye, John therefore watched as dripping and streaming with water, the consulting detective climbed out of the pool, and spread open his sodden wings. It was not entirely unexpected of course, when Sherlock proceeded to give himself a good shake like a wet dog. The doctor still yelped in annoyance to be covered again in chlorine saturated droplets. Mycroft on the other hand just stood there in stoic resignation, as if accustomed to his brother ruining yet another one of his grey suits.

'He's busy!' Sherlock snapped, seeing through the passive aggressive manipulation by his brother. 'We're both busy. Do you own leg work.'

'Sherlock!' the doctor squawked in annoyance to be snatched off his feet like a rag doll,'We can't just leave. Mycroft was saying something.'

Sherlock snorted loudly and kept flying.


	34. The Parliament House

**Anote**: Massive writer's block this past month. Will try to work through it.

._...continued __directly from last chapter_

_**Flashback**: John gasped as Sherlock let him go and he gently tumbled into a soft outdoor chair. Immediately, he threw his hands over his head as Sherlock drew his wings in close to his body and dived into the pool, spraying water everywhere._

Chapter 34- **The Parliament House**

Childish it might seem, but nothing could lift Sherlock's spirits as much as speeching off his older brother.

It was therefore with a happy spring in his step that Sherlock sauntered away to shower off all the chlorinated pool water, before joining John infront of the television. Sherlock was in such a good mood as he toweled dried his hair and feathers that he was quite content to let the other man watch whatever inane programme he wanted. He was therefore quite put out when his flat mate unexpectedly switched off the telly, and got up from his chair.

Quietly, John explained that the combination of whatever glue was used to fix the window, together with the lingering smell of smoke was making his head spin. Clutching his pillow and blanket, the doctor smiled apologetically and headed out to the roof to try and find some relief.

Sherlock scowled at the empty living room; cranky and upset now that he was alone with not even a hint of anything delicious bubbling on the stove that resembled dinner. Naturally, Sherlock found himself following after his friend. After all, he was being actively stalked by person or persons unknown whose intent was mischief which bordered on homicide. It was better if they stuck together. So this was how the duo found themselves on Sherlock's favourite roof in all of London.

It was a bit of a squash for two fully grown men on the short ledge but after the events of the morning, it was a comfort for Sherlock to feel the reassuring press of his friend's solid frame against his. John appeared to be similarly pleased as he took Sherlock's rag and pat dry the man's dark feathers; humming softly to himself.

'Alright, John?' he called over his shoulder, just in case.

'It's a good thing that this seat cushion is here, or else my butt would be numb by now,' the man answered laughingly.

'I come here often,' Sherlock confessed.

John could see why as he raised his eyes to see the best bits of a night time London, spread out before them from their hidden perch on the Parliament building. On the left were most of the city's landmarks with the Eye making its slow circular journey, to the enjoyment of her open mouthed tourists. But to their right, it was a bit darker as the massive Thames snaked along, coming right under their feet before tapering off to the blackness far in the distance.

'I love it, thanks for sharing,' John agreed softly. 'Headache is gone.'

However, every now and then their peaceful night was interrupted as a few flyers came by to investigate. John felt himself flush with a now habitual sense of embarrassment; wishing for the thousandth time he could adopt Sherlock's I-don't-give-a-damn attitude. What must it look like to have Sherlock half sitting on his lap, and he more or less tucked behind his friend's wing? His embarrassment soon shifted to one of curiosity, when Sherlock started greeting some of their visitors by their first name. Sherlock didn't introduce him though, and John found it a bit ballsy of the few who leaned around Sherlock's outstretched wing to shake his hand.

But there was something odd about these folk; a roughness in speech and dress that was at odds with Sherlock's polished manners.

'Sherl, are these people homeless?' he eventually whispered to the back of the man's curly head.

'Yes. Why do you ask?' Sherlock replied blandly, as if it was quite natural to be acquainted so intimately with those who lived on the street. After overcoming his initial surprise, John smiled down at the the feathers he was drying. His friend had such a unique personality that it was like a breath of fresh air which was a nice counterpoint to the stuffiness of his own way of seeing things.

Now Sherlock didn't stay with him all night as he flew off in a bid to get himself completely dry. However, it wasn't hard for John to keep an eye on him, even though it was dark. It wasn't because Sherlock was wearing one of his innumerable white shirts as much as his sheer size that made him stand out among the other flyers, who were all out enjoying one of the few spots in London where a long lazy flight was possible without the blasted inconvenience of electrical wires and buildings.

John tried not to gawk like an idiot but that was easier said that done. He thought he was used to his friend's appearance by now, but when Sherlock was flying among others, it just emphasized how much wider his wingspan was to everyone else.

Sherlock didn't fly as much as he soared, and it was an amazing sight to witness.

Again, John wondered why the bloody heck the man wanted to hang out with him. He couldn't even fly. He was a useless lump on the face of society. As if sensing his brooding, Sherlock flew up and brought him dinner (fish and chips). Periodically the detective would come back and share a cup of beer or an interesting stone that he picked up from the river.

John snorted with laughter when Sherlock's friends pulled him into a race up the Thames. The eager contestants groaned and then laughed as Sherlock outstripped them within seconds. There was nothing arrogant about the detective when he flew across the agreed upon finish line unchallenged. Apparently, his infamous temper only extended to those who were mentally slow. Sherlock's biology would always mean that he would be faster and stronger than most of the Winged; there was really no need to feel superior about it.

However, it was Sherlock's acquaintances who saw the drunken stranger approaching John before he did. Sherlock was much too far in any case and those who were nearby hurried to the doctor's aid. They backed off chuckling ruefully to themselves though, as the small man authoritatively told his unwanted company to go jump in the river. There was clearly more to Sherlock's mild mannered companion than was apparent at first glance.

As the night wore on, it grew quieter as most people headed home and the bus stopped working. Of course the growing silence of night was periodically broken by an over excited tourist hollering, or a party boat with its sound system pouring out a thrumming bass as it sped past. In the meantime, Sherlock had arranged for John to spend the night on Mrs. Hudson's couch. As he disposed of their garbage in the bin, the detective was just thinking that they should head to Baker street when his mobile beeped, signalling a text.

_Sherlock? _

The detective whipped around and looked up as he recognized the number. He was surprised yet he wasn't when he saw that John was standing on the ledge now, with his wings open; just staring down at him.

Sherlock felt his heart sink with regret and dismay.

_Stupid, Stupid! What was I thinking, bringing John out here with all these flyers and then leaving him alone? Of course, he would want to fly too._

The doctor was never in any danger as he stepped off the ledge but Sherlock knew he wouldn't be able to manage and sure enough, somewhere in the middle of his glide John; worrying and fearful for all the things he couldn't control in his life, lost his balance and plunged straight to the ground. Effortlessly, Sherlock caught his new flat mate in midair.

'John?'

Some of the winged swooped closer, naturally distressed by what they had just witnessed, but Sherlock waved them away. The ex-army captain's face was like stone for a brief moment, before it smoothed out in a passive slack expression.

'Sorry, I don't know what came over me,' John replied mechanically, not looking at him, 'can we go home, now?'

Perhaps it wasn't such a bad thing that Harold was coming to visit in a few days.


	35. Paracetamol

**Anote**: I have actually figured out what the problem is with my writing and Mycroft of all people has agreed to help out, as you will see when you read the chapter :) Also, just to remind you, Harold is a black winged Australian that became close with John on the ship. This chapter draws heavily on season 1 episode 3 the Great Game.

Warnings for mention of suicide and drug use

Chapter 35- **Paracetamol**

'I beg your pardon?' Mycroft spluttered in some surprise as he looked across the table at his sibling.

Sherlock restrained himself from slapping the pepper and salt shaker set to the ground in his frustration. Did his brother always have to be such a giant pain in the ...?

'Of course, I will assist,' the government agent tacked on hastily, interrupting the detective's thoughts, 'I want to know about white and black winged mutations as much as you do. I was just taken off guard by your polite...request.'

The younger man took in a shaky breath, fighting for calm. He could understand Mycroft's astonishment. He, Sherlock, would rather cut off his own arm before asking for help, and they both knew that, but with Sherlock being mysteriously stalked, it was getting difficult to concentrate on this, and collecting precise observational data from Harold at the same time.

Mercifully, Mycroft didn't indulge in any verbal barbs nor did it appear as though he was going to make him beg for it, as the older man pulled out a notebook and pen.

'What have you done so far?' he inquired in a serious manner, poised to take notes. In the meantime, the owner of the sandwich shop came forward and put a fresh pot of coffee on chequered tablecloth. The businessman took the opportunity to give Sherlock a pointed stare, warning him to keep his wings closed and quiet, so he wouldn't knock over all the lighter items in the small shop.

'Not much,' Sherlock admitted, 'Harold is here and he is at the hotel suite that you set aside for him. I have arranged five times to bring John to him, and to each, I have made a spurious excuse to cancel via text. He must be quite irritated with me by now.'

'And quite desperate,' Mycroft nodded approvingly, as he made rapid notes, 'he only has one week left before he must return to work, and seeing John before then must be occupying his mind completely. Well done. A situation like that should trigger his extra sense just as it did for you. I see now why you had me block messages to John's Facebook page. I take it that the good doctor is still very much in the dark about the experiment.'

'Of course,' Sherlock said suspiciously, as always tensed for the other shoe to drop where his brother was concerned.

'And what was that with John walking off the ledge the other night?'

Sherlock's expression hardened again.

'You're taking too long to fix that problem,' Mycroft scolded lightly, while he continued to scribble in his book.

If looks could kill, Mycroft would be gagging his last breath right about now. However, the older man ignored his brother's glare as he handed Sherlock his plan for the rest of the experiment. The detective read it through quickly and grunted his approval.

'I have been talking to Professor Kingsley of Cambridge, about the mythology,' Mycroft added, 'quite an intelligent man and very willing to answer questions. He knows about John of course, but he doesn't know about you. I imagine his heart might give out if the two of you walked into his study one day. It would be like one of his history texts coming to life.'

'I've read some of his papers,' Sherlock said curtly. 'What has he to say?'

Mycroft retrieved his book and tucked it away safely into his breast pocket, 'What he said makes me realise that you have not been exactly forthcoming with your information, as we agreed.'

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in a questioning manner.

'The mythologies say this extra sense is supposed to go both ways!' Mycroft ejaculated, 'don't you think that John being able to pinpoint your location apparently _anywhere_ in England is something I would want to know?'

The detective shrugged with a holey insincere look of guilt on his face, causing Mycroft to exhale in exasperation.

'Do you want to discuss your other ...predicament?'

'People are dying,' Sherlock murmured, ruefully shaking his head as he remembered how angry John was at his supposed uncaring words. Mycroft didn't comment as he sipped his coffee; his spirit perhaps a bit jaded by his own experiences in life to work up a socially acceptable reply.

Sherlock checked his watch. 'I have to go, John has developed this ridiculous habit of trying to get me to eat every four hours.'

At least he used to.

Sherlock wouldn't be surprised if he went upstairs to find John brooding in his room or vigorously re-cleaning something or the other for the tenth time in a row. The doctor had been withdrawn of late since that fiasco at the Thames. He smiled and ate and watched telly and followed him around from crime scene to crime scene, but the doctor didn't talk anymore, not unless you asked him a direct question. Sherlock reasoned that it would be extremely difficult now to get John to attempt another flight. More than likely he would have to be tricked into it.

_I should have dealt with this as soon we reached back to England._

'You are a million miles away, my dear brother,' Mycroft said softly.

'I think all the cases are related; the murder-suicide, General Shen, the death of that student in the swimming pool.'

Mycroft frowned as he peeked into the paper bag containing a pair of ratty sneakers that Sherlock held out. He was not aware of any student.

'I fail to see how they are all related.'

Sherlock rose from the table and grabbed the bag, throwing down some bills to cover their drinks, 'They are related, because I have not been able to solve them. The natural deduction is that it must be one person.'

'Well if that is true this one person certainly has variable tastes,' Mycroft offered after a reflection, 'murder, smuggling, kidnapping, torture?'

'Indeed,' Sherlock agreed quietly, as he tucked a large carton of milk under his under arm.

'Is the milk also evidence?' his brother asked with increased interest.

The young man mumbled something inarticulate as he hurried out of the door.

* * *

John didn't turn around when Sherlock came in, but the rustling sound behind him drew his attention. The doctor looked up to watch in the reflection of the lap top screen as the other man placed the box of milk in the centre of an empty table. Reflected Sherlock stared at the carton unhappily for a moment before picking it up and shining the box with his sleeve. When he replaced it on the table, the young man then looked around uncertainly, as if searching for something else he could do in the flat.

John found himself grinning at the oddness of their relationship; where his friend could only think of purchasing groceries as a way to cheer him up.

'Sherlock, come here.'

The detective was clearly startled as he jumped back a step, but hurried forward as John seated himself on the settee.

John had a moment of bemusement as Sherlock blue eyes' bored eagerly into his face.

'Look, I don't want to talk about what happened the other night, if that's okay?'

'Certainly,' Sherlock said robotically, 'I don't see why you want to actually. What should we talk about, today?'

It pained John to see the hint of nervousness in Sherlock's expression. It was so anti-Sherlock for him to look like that; to look like he was bracing himself to be pushed away like something that was unwanted. It drove John around the twist every time.

'I wasn't trying to off myself or anything, so...you shouldn't be worrying about something like that,' the smaller man blurted out in a rush, 'Remember, I made sure you turned around, before I stepped off the ledge.'

'The thought never crossed my mind.'

'Well good,' John mumbled feeling slightly embarrassed by his outburst. Apparently he had been worried about nothing, 'we'll talk about it later. This is actually what I want to discuss,' he added, placing the laptop on Sherlock's knees.

He wasn't sure how the detective would feel about this. The doctor's only reaction was a strong desire to die of laughter, but he would restrain himself, just in case.

Diligently, Sherlock perused the screen. 'Why are we looking at my website? Didn't you say the content was dry?'

John pointed to the long string of comments by user-handle _lovegenius, a_nd he watched as the other man scanned through some of the oddest comments that were probably meant to be flattering, but came across sounding a shade creepy.

'I think I have an online admirer,' the detective remarked in his usual bland manner. 'Judging from the way you are looking at me, you know the person's identity and you are concerned about my reaction. I don't know why you think I would care. You of all people should know that the Work comes before any of this.'

John coughed to clear his throat, suddenly wondering why he had found this initially funny, 'You're right and normally I wouldn't say anything but I know you... care... about Ms Hooper.'

'Molly?' Sherlock sneered with an impatient rustle of his wings, 'Don't be daft, John. This isn't her! Don't you think I know how she expresses herself?'

'I know it isn't her,' John said even quieter, 'It's Jim. It's Molly's Jim. She told me.'

Astonished Sherlock stared at the laptop; his wings opening subconsciously as if trying to put some so distance between himself and these unwanted attentions. Eventually, he closed the lid of the computer. 'Oh'

John stared at the side of his friend's face, which looked contemplative and miserable.

'Is this my fault, John?' he asked in that serious way that came up unexpectedly whenever Sherlock spoke of what was truly in his heart and mind.

'No, it isn't!' the doctor reassured him quickly, 'I was there right there when Molly introduced him. You were just sitting there minding your own business and he started hitting on you. He's a wanker of epic proportions and Molly deserves better!'

Sherlock nodded before closing his eyes and laying his head back with a quiet sigh, as if he was quite ready for this day to end. John gave his arm a gentle pat, suddenly worried now about how much strain the detective was under.

'It will work out,' John remarked, 'you don't have to do anything. I will help you.'

'Stay,' Sherlock murmured as the cushions squeaked when John shifted his leg but the detective only opened his eyes when he felt John pulling on his arm; encouraging him to lay flat.

The living room was all but plunged into darkness with just that single bulb in the kitchen giving any light. Sherlock acknowledged that this should be relaxing but not when his mind was racing at a million miles per hour. He stared at the ceiling, trying to take in some deep breaths as John slid his arm into a pressure cuff.

'Where did that come from?' he asked lazily, wincing as the cuff squeezed his arm, 'it's not new.'

'It belongs to Mrs. Hudson. I've been keeping an eye on her. That hip of hers is starting to affect her sleep,' John replied as Sherlock moved around to give him a space to sit. The doctor frowned at the reading that scrolled out on the digital readout. 'Well that does it. You're officially a mess.'

Sherlock gave a short huff of laughter at this diagnosis, 'Is that a technical term?

'Yes,' John groused; squeezing the man's arm affectionately when his friend stretched out like a cat and his long limbs popped softly. 'Let me give you something to sleep. You don't have any allergies, do you?'

The cold swab of the cotton ball on the inside of his arm drove Sherlock to full awareness, and John almost dropped the syringe, as the detective clamped down on his wrist with surprising strength.

'Sherlock!' he cried out in horrified surprise.

Realising that he was hurting the doctor, the young man released his grip; pushing whatever medicine John was proposing to use to one side.

'You okay?' John said in tiny voice as Sherlock just continued staring at the ceiling, 'Sherlock I am your doctor and I would never hurt you. What's wrong?'

'Nothing,' Sherlock replied in a careless voice, 'I did some experimenting back in my days at Uni. If I am not under hospital supervision, I won't swallow anything stronger than paracetamol.'

'Blimey,' John murmured under his breath, 'Sorry.'

Sherlock waved away the apology, 'you could not have known. I still slip from time to time.'

John gave him a hard glance out of the corner of his eye.

_Like hell that is ever going to happen again._

'So...? John asked his voice full of morbid curiosity.

'It was cocaine, John,' Sherlock snapped irritably, wriggling around now like a lively caterpillar as the idea of his secret stash in the flat entered his mind and didn't want to let go, 'Hand me a cigarette under the skull.'

'No.'

'A nicotine patch?'

'You had the right idea earlier with the deep breaths,' John said firmly, 'We can do it together.'

Sherlock fought not to smile as he was still not quite accustomed being so fussed over. It wouldn't do to let John know how his concern affected him. It was... wonderful.

_Why was it wonderful?_

'I'll stay with you tonight, just in case,' John offered as he reached out and placed a gentle hand across Sherlock's eyes. 'I have your six.'


	36. A good friend

**Anote**: Just a few more chapters before I wrap up.

Chapter 36- **A good friend**

Several minutes had passed as Sherlock stood in the shadows of the hotel's dining room, absently staring at John's friend who sat alone, hunched over on one of the tables.

This experiment would perhaps be easier to conduct if their subjects were aware of what was going on, but of course Sherlock wasn't too keen on that idea. In his head he would say that at least this way they had some level of control and scientific objectivity, but that truly wasn't the main motivation.

As Harold sat there, swirling his single teacup pathetically with a teaspoon, he was collecting more than a few looks from passing diners. Perhaps it was because of his bulky size and how his tall wings dwarfed the small table, but it could have also been because of how his entire dour demeanor contrasted so sharply with his splashy I love London t-shirt.

In the meantime Sherlock look down at his mobile, reading the neatly typed summary that had been emailed. The detective didn't know if to be relieved or not by the unexpected results.

Mycroft had assigned his personal assistant Anthea, to execute the methodology and she had nudged Harold all over London in the guise of a luxury tour, but no observable change had been discovered in the Australian's behaviour. The man talked ceaselessly of wanting to visit John, but the extra sense that Sherlock had come to understand was his, had not been manifested in their new black winged acquaintance.

Finally, Sherlock re-read Mycroft's concluding paragraph. Either Harold was a black winged that not capable of experiencing an extra sense, or John had to be in mortal danger for it to be felt.

Sherlock's thin fingers moved quickly over the keys.

_Suspend the experiment._

He then deleted the email and then deleted it out of the trash bin. They had tried and now this test would have to wait for a more favorable time. While from their time together, John didn't appear to mind being kept in the dark if it benefited the Work, it was doubtful if John would be similarly accepting of being directly manipulated. He couldn't have John wander off in a huff; not now. It wouldn't take much for a clever man to realise that harming John in any way, would be a much more effective means of securing his attention.

Suddenly, Harold looked up but sat there frozen like an idiot, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

With a roar of surprise which startled every single one of the patrons, Harold bounded to his feet and tore across the room. However, Sherlock counted himself as fortunate that the other man remembered himself and put on some brakes, just before he picked him up in his beefy arms.

Naturally, the consulting detective didn't quite care to be crushed in this fashion, but he reached out as best as he could to embrace the other man; a reaction which caused Harold to almost drop him. Gone was Harold's excited happy smile as he stared contemplatively at the unusually inviting expression on Sherlock's face. He remembered the man from the ship. The young man had never joined in any conversations, and he always flew alone. It was apparent that Sherlock didn't like people and if not for John, Harold would have no idea what the other man even sounded like.

'I _am_ very pleased that you're here,' Sherlock said as way of replying to the other man's unspoken question. 'Cliche as it maybe be; two pairs of eyes are better than one.'

'Is this because of John taking a nose dive the other day from The Parliament bulidings?' Harold said anxiously, 'your brother told me. '

'He was not trying to harm himself,' Sherlock insisted in a firm voice, 'I was right there.'

'But John can't fly, so why did he...'

The detective scowled up at him, and Harold found himself tongue tied. He had seen how close the two men were on the ship; almost like long lost brothers. Sherlock was would feel insulted if he continued.

'OH HANG IT ALL,' Harold wailed suddenly, as turned around in a flustered circle ,'you didn't bring John with you?! Where is he?! Where is he?!'

Sherlock eyes' flicked to the side where he had left John sneering at a grossly incorrect poster on how to perform CPR. The doctor didn't know why they were visiting the hotel as it was to be a treat for him, but to Sherlock's horror John was not where he had left him. Terrified, he turned his mind inwards and reached out to the man, and the welcoming 'ping' that came back almost instantly calmed him.

Sherlock stepped once to the right, and it was enough to bring John back into view from where he was blocked by a large potted plant. Gesturing with one hand, the detective winced anew as Harold bellowed again but smiled as the Australian repeated the same routine, as he snatched an incredulous John off his feet, and began dancing in a joyful circle.

Sherlock could never understand people who were so demonstrative in their emotions. He was always pleased of course to have John's company so exclusively, but he doubted very much he could show or articulate it in such a manner.

John, looking confused, as he was set on his feet to better hear all about Harold's almost unsuccessful visit, glanced in Sherlock's direction. The doctor patted his friend's shoulder comfortingly as they slowly strolled towards the detective.

'Why didn't you tell me he was here?' John asked, looking thoroughly bemused, and a little irritated. He knew Sherlock had a problem with sharing but this bordered on the ridiculous. They were not children in a pre-school, for crying out loud.

'We were busy, John,' the detective snorted so condescendingly that Harold tried desperately to blend into the background, when the doctor's face flushed seven shades of crazy.

'Did you even think that for a _moment,_ that I could have used a friend?!' John shouted baldly up into Sherlock's face; feeling pushed pass all reason.

Harold put out a large hand to stop the doctor before he could say anything else, but he didn't have to. John had seen the color drain from his flat mate's face, before it morphed into an impassive mask of indifference.

'Jesus,' the smaller man breathed softly in apology, 'I don't know why I said that.'

Sherlock crooked an eyebrow, 'Yes, you do.'

Their eyes connected for a long moment before John, ashamed by his words, looked down and away. Sherlock reached out a gentle hand and cupped the man's chin, bringing it back up to meet his eyes. Graciously Harold moved away; sensing the duo needed a moment.

'It's fine,' the detective said softly.

John's face spasmed in the agony of deep emotion,' Stop saying that! It's not okay. I...I'

_I hurt inside, Sherlock and I am taking it out on you; the one person I know would just grin and bear it. Don't you understand, I can't fly. I thought I was alright with that but I'm not. I'm not._

Sherlock, displaying an unusual amount of empathy, opened his arms and John buried his face in his friend's shoulder. Convulsively, the detective tightened his grip across the man's shoulders, as a tell tale drop of hot moisture trickled across his neck.

'I haven't been a good friend to you, John,' he murmured; his wings sliding forward to wrap around the doctor's back.

Shocked, John pulled away so he could see his flat mate's face, 'Why did you say that? Don't say that. Your friendship has been the most important of my entire life. You've fixed me in places that I didn't know were in broken. I am very happy to have met you that day in the alley.'

'You didn't seem so happy on Wednesday last,' Sherlock reminded him with a look of confusion.

'That's because you put a human head in our fridge,' John hissed in exasperation.

Sherlock just stared down at him with an unreadable expression while Harold sheepishly inched forward, 'Should I go away?'

'Of course not,' the two other men chorused in unison and almost like a choreographed dance, Sherlock opened his wings and John ducked behind them to wipe his face, before reemerging on the next side with a smile.

'How about something to eat?' John inquired, 'Let me buy you dinner.'

Harold eyes glanced between the two and then relaxed his shoulders. Their little quarrel seemed to be over and even Sherlock, who was not the most welcoming bloke, was making a hand motions to wave him closer.

'You're not coming?' John turned back when he realised that Sherlock was not following them into the dining room.

Sherlock smiled dryly as he pushed his hands into his pockets, 'It's you he came to see. Go on, you need to eat. We don't have to be on the case all the time.'

John pretended to anxiously check Sherlock's head for a fever and the detective eyes' sparkled with good humor. He was still surprised whenever John took the time to play with him.

'You sure this is safe?' the doctor queried, turning serious once more, 'perhaps we should stay together. I don't think you should be alone.'

Sherlock waved his mobile lazily at the window, where the type of car Mycroft favoured crept along on the street outside; trying to blend in. 'I am never alone. Harold, stay close to John this evening. We have been having a lively month.'

'I will guard him with my life, sir,' Harold said with a sharp salute; so excited that he was practically bouncing.

The detective watched until John and Harold vanished into the hotel's restaurant before leaving the lobby. Thoughtfully, he stared at the black car which, as though observing that perhaps the young man preferred to be driven than to call a cab, moved closer with greater deliberation.

Sherlock activated his messages, trying to see if there was anything new but no, just that cryptic anonymous one from a few hours ago.

_Midnight by the pool_.

The pool.

A pool.

A pool was where it had all started; the very first time he tried to catch a murderer.

_Coincidence, I think not._

Decision made, the detective waved the car away before he spread open his wings and took to the sky.


	37. The last deduction

**Flashback**:_Sherlock activated his messages, trying to see if there was anything new but no, just that cryptic anonymous one from a few hours ago._

_"Midnight by the pool"_

_The pool._

_A pool._

_A pool was where it had all started; the very first time he tried to catch a murderer._

Chapter 37- **The last deduction**

For a confused second Sherlock thought it really was John, tripping over his feet in the dark.

The short height, close cropped hair and wings were the shapes which the detective normally associated with his best mate, but after a pause of short reflection Sherlock realised it couldn't possibly be the doctor. John's white wings were so bright even in a dark room, that it really would be impossible for him to sneak up on anyone.

Sherlock checked his watch.

_11:52 pm_

There was still time.

Sherlock swooped down from the ledge he was using to watch over the gymnasium's pool, and grabbed the unwanted visitor by the loops of his belt. With a soft sigh of irritation, the detective then returned to his perch and offloaded Molly's boyfriend on the space next to him; pressing a warning finger against his lips so he wouldn't speak.

Vigilantly, Sherlock turned to scan the area, trying to ascertain if they had been discovered. However, after a few tense minutes had passed and there was no out of place movement, he turned to face his "guest".

Jim looked so young with his grey black feathers fluffed out in an excited puff all around him, that for a moment it caught Sherlock off guard. He never paid much attention to the man, and he was surprised and annoyed that he was having such a difficult time of deducing him now.

In the last few days, John had undertaken to talk to Jim in a discreet manner, hoping that the situation could be resolved quickly and tactfully, without disrupting the work dynamics of the three persons involved namely Molly, James and Sherlock. Sherlock didn't know what John had said, (neither did he care) but it hadn't been at all effective.

Later, the doctor would reveal to him how uneasy he had felt when he came to realise that Jim was following them around, waiting for Sherlock to be alone. John had been quite furious one night to find a confused Sherlock neatly cornered by the young man in the men's room of St. Bart's, begging for a photograph. The doctor had dragged Jim off the detective then, and practically pelted him out the door. Ever since that moment, a war of snarky words seemed to have developed between the the doctor and the IT technician, culminating one morning when John almost punched Jim in his baby soft face, as the man bravely remarked infront of everyone that Sherlock was too spoilt and needed a strong hand to put him in his place.

'Didn't Dr. Watson speak to you several times about following me?!' Sherlock snapped sternly in a whisper, 'Go home. Go home now!'

Jim's happy excited expression naturally flashed to one of stunned outrage at being addressed like a bad dog.

''You should have listened to Watson,' Sherlock continued, 'he was trying to shield you from me. I don't _do_ nice.'

The detective's head was unfortunately facing away so he missed the other man's strange smirk.

'Isn't all this sneaking around, sniffing for clues in the dark a bit under your pay grade?' Jim sneered in retaliation.

'Your pathetic attempt to discomfit me is not effective, neither is it necessary,' Sherlock replied in apparent resignation, 'you can participate if you wish, but do shut up!'

'You know, that's actually one of the many things I love about you,' the technician replied, 'you are not afraid.'

'Why are you _still_ talking?!' the detective hissed furiously.

Silence mercifully reigned but eventually, Sherlock's curiosity got the better of him.

'Afraid?'

'You've never noticed how afraid everyone is, all the time?' Jim answered, swinging his short jean clad legs companionably, 'Afraid to think, afraid to speak, afraid to take?'

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed, feeling that there was a subtext here in this inane dialogue that because of his absence of social grace, he wasn't skilled enough to grasp. 'There is some danger but you will be safe if you stay here and not speak. That last part especially.'

Inspiration suddenly made itself felt, and Sherlock tightened his grip on the revolver in his pocket. He would knock Jim in the back of his head, and tie him up. That would keep him out of his hair for awhile.

Jim tilted his head with an inquiring look of suspicion as if picking up on the other man's thoughts, 'Can I ask you something?

'Oh Lord,' Sherlock muttered under his breath in exasperation.

'I was wondering, is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?'

_?_

Jim giggled like a little child, to see the sudden light of realisation gradually move across his companion's face.

'I have always admired your methods, Sherlock even though its been a bloody nuisance at times,' Jim admitted, 'I was aiding General Shen's enterprise in London when you really got my notice again. You got in deep there in a way I would not have done.'

_What the hell?_

'Those triads be crazy!' the young man replied, his eyes widening in mock fear; the blue green light from the pool reflecting eerily off his pale features.

'You assisted the General?' Sherlock repeatedly stupidly, turning fully to face the other man.

'And you were right about the cab driver in the case of the murder suicides!' the technician exclaimed happily, punching him lightly in the bicep. ' I am sure you would have caught up with him eventually but he died...cancer. Boring, I agree.'

'How?' Sherlock stuttered, his mouth hanging open.

'He was one of mine too. Creative bastard wasn't he?'

'Quite,' Sherlock murmured in breathless agreement, 'one of the most imaginative Londoners in all my years.'

Now it was Jim's turn to be surprised.

'I almost believed that part of you was lost; that part where you can be overwhelmed by the beauty of a murderer's mind,' Jim explained, 'I am very, very happy to see it's still there and not beaten out of you by that droll brown mouse always trailing behind you.'

In the meantime, Sherlock's wings began to open of its own accord; mantling high in the air as if readying his body for fight or flight. The other man looked up in fearless admiration, as the dark wings gradually came to overshadow him; casting him into more and more into blackness.

'Thanks for coming tonight. I really wanted to talk to you without your little ...pet.'

'Go on,' Sherlock murmured softly, still a bit too shocked to string together anything more coherent. How could he be so blind? It boggled his hard drive that he was taken in by Jim's sleight of hand. He had been hunting for this man for close to two weeks and there he was all the time. Sherlock could almost see the metamorphosis in front his eyes as Jim (was that even his name?) sat up straighter, and his voice became smoother and his words more polished.

_John, you're not going to believe this. I don't believe this. I will take a picture._

'I kept tabs on you on and off for awhile for years,' the man then revealed unexpectedly, 'there was this one time I found you when you brother was trying to force you into rehab. I should have snatched you then and added you to my collection. You were so gorgeously wild in those days, but now...you're domesticated! Curse, John Watson!'

'You've killed so many people,' Sherlock croaked hoarsely.

'Now _that_ was unimaginative,' the other man snarled in disappointment, 'Watson has truly ruined you. I should run over the flightless bitch with my car.'

'I would rather you didn't.'

'HE RUINED EVERYTHING! Jim shouted crazily, 'how can you defend him?'

The small man closed his eyes, panting with exertion, 'He's ruined you. Don't you understand, we could have been amazing together'

'The consulting detective and the consulting criminal?'

Jim looked up with a sad sort of smile before reaching out to tuck a stray curl behind Sherlock's ear. 'We would have been amazing, but now I am not sure what to do with you. You cant be allowed to carry on...you just can't.'

Of course, the detective pulled away from this intimacy but it was much too late, and he winced as something sharp, pinched the side of his neck.

The other man held out his hand to him palm first, so he could see the small syringe he had hidden there.

'So what does this mean?' Sherlock remarked defiantly, 'if you can't have me no one else can? And you accuse me of being unimaginative.'

'It should be a comfort to know that the very last deduction you will ever make, was the correct one.'

* * *

John knew he should get up to make sure the flat was clean, and put out the breakfast things. The morning lightly shone brightly on the back of his eyelids as if trying to nudge him along, but in response he rolled over on his stomach and snuffled down into the sofa cushions. He and Harold had an energetic night on the town, and he was talked out. It was after two in the morning when he finally brought the man to Baker street and offered him his bed, while he took the couch.

Surely, Sherlock could make their guest some food by himself.

'John?' a soft male voice called out to him, right on cue. 'Wake up.'

'For the hundredth time, the tea is in the second drawer,' the doctor mumbled, 'wanker.'

'Is he drunk?' another familiar voice asked anxiously.

John's left eye popped open and slowly he peeked over his shoulder to find their Australian guest and half of Scotland yard sitting in the living room behind him.

'Hi,' he said stupidly.

There was a mixed chorus of good mornings and hellos in return, as Lestrade pulled him up and another officer pushed a mug of something steaming in his hand.

'John, Sherlock is missing,' the Inspector began to explain.

The doctor's eyes reflexively darted to Sherlock's empty chair by the fire place, which was of course empty with only Mycroft standing there, holding on tightly to the back cushion with one hand.

It was the older man's strained expression that made John wake up completely, and he downed the scalding tea in one go.

'As a precaution, Sherlock checks in with my office every eight hours,' Greg continued.

'How the bleeding hell did you get him to agree to something like that?!' John interrupted in such shocked surprise, that a low chuckle reverberated around the room.

The Inspector smiled as he continued, 'He checked in at 11 but not at 7. It's 10 now.'

'I don't know what to say. He's suppose to be here,' John fretted as he grabbed Sherlock's laptop and turned it on. 'Is his phone off?'

_Oh God, I don't have the password._

'We don't think so, but he isn't answering.'

'Perhaps he left it on the train,' John suggested hopefully.

'Not likely,' Mycroft murmured, looking down knowingly at John's bent head, 'and besides, he would not be out of contact for so long; not if he could help it.'

_Especially when he is away from you._

'Hey, can't we track him with that phone GPS whatcha-me-call it?' Harold chimed in.

'He's disabled that feature,' Sally answered.

Their visitor scowled, 'I don't understand. Why did he go off on his own if there is apparently so much danger?'

Anderson snorted in disgust, 'You don't know him like we do.'

Lestrade glared at his technician, ordering him to be quiet and not to express anything incendiary to upset the room. Their colleague was missing; nothing else mattered.

In the meantime, Sherlock's screen popped up and to John's surprise there was no password at all. The screen shot of some particularly disgusting autopsy was perhaps all the security Sherlock needed as those closest to John, groaned in tandem and hastily moved away.

Mycroft, stronger of stomach than most, leaned in closer, 'Midnight by the pool? Does it say which pool and who he was meeting?'

'We were investigating a murder from his past which he believed to link with a case that we are working on now, ' John answered. Switching to his own lap top, the doctor brought up his neatly typed notes which were far easier to read than Sherlock's choppy note taking structure.

With zombie like absorption, Mycroft drifted off carrying away the lap top in his hands.

Now John was a man of action, so after he had run up to his room to grab some clothes and shoes, he assumed that he would be assigned to a task. It was almost like olden days again when it was requested that he stay in the flat and wait, just in case Sherlock came back.

Manfully, he shouldered his assignment even though he knew it was going to be awful. It reminded him too much of patrolling in Afghanistan, where nothing would happen for days at a time, only to be broken by ninety seconds of activity where the whole world was exploding all around you.

He could do without the world exploding, this time.

Harold had offered to stay behind and John was grateful that the other man didn't hover over him, but instead sat in the kitchen with Sherlock's computer; checking it periodically for new messages. Without realizing it, John had fallen into a sort of mindless stupor as he sat there with one hand propping up his head, staring at Sherlock's empty chair. In his heart he didn't know how to feel as his mind splintered; swinging erratically from panic to guilt, from annoyance to pain.

In all of this his thoughts kept edging back to settle on the last time he saw his flatmate. Sherlock had hugged him so tightly in a reaffirmation of their friendship before he left last night; a rare instance that now appeared to have been a foreshadow of the events currently unfolding.

_Sherlock, please. This doesn't work without you._

John was understandably at an all time low when the Inspector returned, as the fatherly man had undertaken the somber responsibility of bringing Sherlock's abandoned phone back to his best mate.

'We didn't find any blood or signs of a struggle,' Lestrade remarked reassuringly, 'he's a resourceful bloke, don't worry. I've seen him finesse his way out of countless tight spots. That's the reason why my hair has all gone grey.'

John clenched the mobile tightly in his hand and nodded quietly; too choked up to even speak.

_Don't you leave me here all alone. Sherlock, do you hear me? God dammit, I am going to kill you!_

'What now?' Harold wanted to know, as he held up his mobile, 'I can get some of the others here if you need help with an aerial search. In twenty minutes, we can get about 50 of our black winged friends in the air.'

'We need a direction first,' Lestrade said now with a hint of worry showing through for the first time, 'I left my team knocking on doors in the neighborhood. They should have something for us soon.'

'But perhaps not before you can find him first,' Mycroft drawled as he walked in and locked the front door behind him. 'John, where is Sherlock?'

White hot anger bubbled up inside the doctor as he locked eyes with the older man. Sherlock and his brother still had a peculiar sort of relationship, but John had always been willing to give the man the benefit of the doubt; no matter what his flat mate said to the contrary. All of a sudden though, he wasn't feeling so charitable.

'What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?' John said frostily. 'he's missing, you tosser!'

'I think you can tell me where he is,' Mycroft refuted with such a ring of insistence, that both Lestrade and Harold turned to the doctor expectantly.

John frowned in confusion as Mycroft drew up an ottoman and sat infront of him.


	38. South

Flashback:

_Jim looked up with a sad sort of smile before reaching out to tuck a stray curl behind Sherlock's ear. 'We would have been amazing, but now I am not sure what to do with you. You can't be allowed to carry on...you just can't_.'

Chapter 38- **South**

Lestrade grimaced as he ended his phone call. There was new information but it was hardly encouraging.

'What news?' Mycroft shot off so unexpectedly behind his left ear, that the Inspector jumped.

'Christ...don't sneak up on a body like that,' the police man hissed, as he turned around.

Mycroft arched an eyebrow, 'I didn't sneak up on you. You were miles away, so they say.'

_And with good reason._

'Is John still getting some air on the roof?' the Inspector asked, folding his arms across his chest.

'You have a report? ' his companion pressed relentlessly.

Again Lestrade grimaced, 'Nothing concrete. One of the residents said they saw a dark panel van leaving at around midnight. It was heading in a southerly direction.'

'That's it?' Mycroft queried in icy disappointment. 'Where exactly South?!'

'Have your "operatives" done any better?!' the detective snapped; bristling under the other man's attack.

The conversation quickly descended into a hostile silence, before the two men glanced at each other in mute apology. It had been a tense hour of waiting since they had found Sherlock's phone and precious little else. Yes, Sherlock had always shown in the past that he was exceedingly capable under fire, but that was then. Now everyone knew he worked with a partner, and it was this prolonged absence from John's side more than anything else, that was enough to warrant some worry. In the meantime, the government agent narrowed his eyes, reading the cues in the other man's body language with practiced ease.

Mycroft gestured with one hand, 'speak what's on your mind.'

The Yard detective huffed in surprise but obediently leaned against the Victorian wall paper that decorated that side of the living room. 'You and I have been colleagues, for want of a better word, for almost a decade, trying to keep Sherlock healthy, focused, clean. I have seen the way you "interact". It's like that game with the pea under the cups. John is a straight up bloke, so I don't think this approach is going to work.'

'I don't follow?'

'Mental radar?!' the man cried out ,'What the blooming hell is that all about?!'

The government agent raised his hand again to cut him off; skewing him with a look of disbelief. 'You really think that I would invent a story like that.'

'I don't know what to think!' the man barked, 'but if you are not going to be helpful, I think you better clear off!'

Mycroft smirked in amusement, reading in between the lines at the deep seated loyalty and concern that John and Sherlock had aroused in one of the best officers of Scotland Yard.

'I assure you that all of I have said is true,' he insisted in a soft voice, gesturing to the other man to follow him up the stairs that would give them roof access. 'Sherlock has demonstrated it to me, on more than one occasion.'

He turned back when he didn't hear the man's heavy tread on the step behind. As it was, it took a few hard swallows before the Inspector could speak at all. 'You couldn't possibly be as calm as you are now, when you first saw the evidence.'

'I was sitting right on that settee,' Mycroft pointed, 'when Sherlock showed me. I had suspected for awhile now but the idea was so fantastical, that I refused to believe what was right before me.'

'I don't blame you, it's like something out of my nephew's comic books,' Lestrade murmured in astonishment, trying to fully digest what he had just learnt and pick out the bits that were the most important. How could something like this be happening? This was the 21st century for crying out loud!

'How come John didn't know?' the police officer inquired abruptly. The poor doctor had been so shocked that he had turned an unhealthy shade of white. 'You almost gave Watson a heart attack, I think.'

'Follow me,' Mycroft announced, 'John has been alone too long.'

'John is _not_ alone!' Lestrade hissed, insulted that the other man had brushed aside his question with no attempt at subtly , 'From the amount of shadows that have flown passed the windows in the last hour, it looks as though the whole roof of Baker Street is covered by Harold's friends.'

'Ah...so have not you forgotten that my brother is missing...'

'...the investigation of which, you are currently impeding!'

'Both you and John are focused on the wrong thing right now,' the government agent sighed in exasperation.

'What should we be focused on?'

'Hopefully, John's ability to track Sherlock through London, of course!'

'And what should we _no_t be focused on?

Mycroft could not help but grin in admiration at the man's tenacity. No wonder his brother chose to work with this man. It took the work of only a moment to make a decision to trust Lestrade with the whole story.

'There are some aspects of the Black-White winged mythology that are not as benign as tracking.'

Now that made the other man peel off the wall in a hurry. 'I beg your pardon?'

'There is the potential for one to abuse the other; mentally perhaps physically,' Mycroft explained with a sigh, 'and that's the reason John threw up in the bathroom.'

'I don't understand,' the inspector pressed anxiously as they climbed the stairs together, 'That's crazy! What could John be thinking?! Sherlock would never hurt him.'

Mycroft eyed the other man's shocked face.

_It's not Sherlock that John is afraid of._

Mycroft actually thought he would be very excited if he could control Sherlock, but John clearly didn't feel the same way. It was to be expected. His relationship with his brother was not comparable to John's.

'And as I said,' Mycroft drawled as he opened the door at the top, 'this is not really important now. It is a deeply personally matter that the boys will have to face together. I trust you will not mention it, especially as it is worrying John.'

All eyeballs swiveled in their direction as they walked on the small roof, except for John who sat Indian style on the roof's edge; with his hand propping up his head, lost in his own little world of misery. In the background, Mrs. Hudson was weaving in and out of the crowd; trying to drown out her worry by serving iced tea and biscuits. However, Mycroft had to cup the Inspector's elbow and pull him forward as the detective stood there frozen in shock at the sight of so many black winged in the tight space.

Agreeably, the men parted for them; neatly tucking away their overly large appendages so they could make their way to where John sat.

Harold, noting the duos approach, climbed to his feet from where he was seated at his friend's side. He shook his head and gave them a stubborn look; warning them that he would be most displeased if John was upset again.

Silence fell as Lestrade, recovering himself, waved his arms commandingly to bring them to order and focus on what he was saying. The inspector nodded pleased as they obeyed him instantly. He was also happy to note the many different types of uniforms he saw in the crowd ranging from army to police to firemen. He had been worried about using civilians; even though they could use all the volunteers they could muster to conduct a search.

'On behalf of Scotland yard, thank you for coming. We are going to split up in teams of three and do a search. We don't have much, but we have a general direction,' he announced; pitching his voice loudly so it could carry to everyone.

'Is it South?' John asked quietly. The Inspector cursed colorfully in shock even as Mycroft dashed to the doctor's side.

'What did you say?' the agent asked in a breathless whisper, 'are you sensing his direction? Just point for me. Well done, John! Well done!'

Mycroft stared in concern as John, flushed with a fine sheet of sweat across his face, anxiously rocked to and fro. Sherlock had never exhibited any sort of symptom like this before.

'Take me to him,' Mycroft pleaded, 'show us the way.'

But John only shook his head vehemently, 'No.'

'You don't have to do anything, just come to the car.'

'There's no time,' he croaked feebly in protest.

'We have plenty time,' Mycroft replied confidently as he reached out, preparing to drag the man to his feet. Instead, John jumped up and pushed him away and there was a momentary pause of alarm when the doctor teetered on the edge of the building.

'Calm down this instant!' Mycroft warned him sternly as if addressing a toddler who was throwing a tantrum. 'What's wrong?'

'Sherlock, is in trouble!' John cried out tearing his gaze from the south, 'he's in trouble. He's in trouble, now!'

Mycroft made a mad grab for the doctor then, as the ex-army soldier unexpectedly threw himself off the side. If not for Harold's quick reflexes, he would have gone over the edge too.

It was a strangled mixture of horror and awe that gripped the small crowd, when far from needing a rescue, John suddenly soared upwards. Maybe a hundred years ago they were plentiful as weeds, but never had anyone of these men seen a white winged human take to the skies, and all stood gawking stupidly up at the slash of moving white against the blindingly blue sky.

'Interesting,' Mycroft murmured with a genuine smile. The man half suspected now that Sherlock had orchestrated this all, just to have this unexpected outcome. However, he couldn't examine his theory any closer, because Mrs. Hudson chose that exact moment to crash her empty tray down on his head in frustration.

'What the bloody hell are you still standing there for?!' she shouted at them all, 'Go after him!'


	39. A vision in white

**Anote**: Warning for mature themes such as mild torture, drug use. I have seen worse on fanfiction but if you don't think you can manage, you can wait for the next one when John will re-enter the story

Chapter 39- **A vision in white**

Watch the prisoner.

What sort of bogus assignment was that?!

The depressed killer, now demoted to the rank of prisoner- baby-sitter, irritably kicked a discarded mint wrapper out of his way as he paced.

So desperate was he that something happen that he glanced longingly at Holmes who was all curled up on the cold concrete; just hoping the man was conscious and would say something. Even a small moan of agony would suffice at this point, but it was not to be, and he resumed his restless pacing.

It wasn't his fault that he didn't "pick up" Watson as he was first instructed. He was assured that the doctor was alone but he wasn't. It was a hiccup in the plan to be sure, and usually something like that would not faze him. It was the fact that Watson was having an intense talk with another giant black winged human that caused him to pause, and to return for further instructions. When he had returned to Baker street to carry out his orders, the doctor was unexpectedly surrounded by dozens of heavily armed winged men, as well as the Yard police, and a quiet extraction was no longer possible.

Of course Moriarty was upset, as he had an elaborate scene set out for the bastard nuisance of a private detective and his trusty stooge, and some realignment of the plan was needed. However, by the time he arrived back to headquarters, they were already in the process of torturing Holmes without him. He was really annoyed at that point because he had missed all the best bits of the fear and begging.

Moriarty was one of the best employers he had ever worked for. Not only did he pay handsomely, he was creative and his schemes were for want of a better word, mouthwatering. Moriarty always went a notch higher than what was expected.

Everyone had a fear of something; usually kept hidden so well from the rest of the word that sometimes the person themselves were not even aware of it. But Moriarty was clever in a way that was scary. By some means or the other, Moriarty always found out what this fear was, because another prisoner might be intensely concerned if they were about to be injected with high grade heroin, but Holmes had been so alarmed that he had dislocated his shoulder as he jerked back in his restraints.

According to his colleagues who had gleefully filled him on all that he had missed, Moriarty had instructed them to bind Sherlock's massive wings together while he was still unconscious and chain him to a post. Moriarty had then patiently waited for the man to wake up, before injecting Sherlock with the first dose himself, and so it had continued every couple of hours. Homes had fought the first few times, but after awhile he just slouched there lethargically as though his mind had abandoned his body and left it behind.

Then came a phone call and like lightening out of the blue sky, Moriarty's whole focus shifted. His employer no longer seemed interesting in transforming Sherlock into a drug addict, and in two hours they had stripped their offices and readied themselves to relocate.

Still in Moriarty's bad graces, he had been left behind with no cell phone and no computer with only his weapon, a syringe and the rest of the heroin to continue on. He was to leave Holmes' body as close to Baker street as he could manage when the vial was finally empty.

The assassin wasn't told where they were relocating but this was standard practice, and he wasn't worried. Moriarty would find him again, maybe tomorrow, maybe in a few months and he would follow the small man to the ends of the world.

Just then a faint rustle came from the corner as Sherlock stirred, and he hurried to pull up a chair.

'Time for your medicine,' he sang in a mocking voice of glee.

Just for a bit of fun, he had uncoupled Sherlock from his restraints and unbound his wings. The private detective was apparently so far gone, that he had barely responded to this new shift in position, from vertical to horizontal. The prisoner just lay on his side shaking all over, as his wings unfolded and then refolded, covering his face and arms as much as possible to block out the strong sunlight that flooded through the slats on the walls.

There was another faint whisper as Holmes eventually raised his wings slightly, so that one eye was uncovered.

The detective's face spasmed in horror when he saw the vial of drugs and the fresh syringe, already freed from its plastic sheath laid out just beyond arms reach.

His jailer leaned forward eagerly.

There was not enough in here to kill Holmes, not the way they had been carefully spacing out the volumes. However that might change if he took it all at one time. Moriarty had been a little vague as to whether he wanted the detective alive or dead.

'Just keep him out of my way,' was the only instruction as his superior remained glued to his mobile for the better part of an hour.

'Whenever you are ready,' the overly excited killer/babysitter sang out again, smiling as the detective's long fingers inched towards the drugs, but then stopped.

Sherlock looked up at him, and for a second he pulled himself together long enough to glare hatefully, but this required too much effort, and he closed his eyes, shaking as the symptoms of withdrawal from the last administered dose began to make itself felt.

'You go on,' he encouraged the other man, 'take as much you like.'

In reply, Holmes slowly raised his hand, and flipped him his middle finger. Sherlock's babysitter was sort of impressed afterwards when the detective closed his wings tightly around his curled up body, as though to shut out temptation.

'I'll be right here when you change your mind,' he replied conversationally. It was just a matter of time before Sherlock's body started to hurt so badly, that he wouldn't be able to resist.

Happily, he rubbed his hands together and settled in to wait.

* * *

Sherlock awoke with a start; moaning softly as the pain in his body made itself felt. He drew his bony knees up to his chest and hugged himself, attempting to get some relief.

He was exhausted both mentally and physically from participating in this never ending nightmare that looped continuously without any end. First the pain would wake him up, which would gradually increase to the point where his mind would clear to realize where he was and what was being done to his transport, and then the fear would set in that not only his body was being slowly destroyed; his mind was in danger too.

Yes, he dabbled with drugs from time to time. He loved the rush of sudden danger of the illicit activity, but he knew the hazards and was more careful than he led Mycroft to believe.

His mind was everything to him.

It was who he was.

It was what had made him the great Sherlock Holmes.

What would he be now?

Just a feeble husk of himself; wandering around in the streets like one of the homeless unfortunates.

A depression would then swamp him as he fought to stay in this moment, free of hallucinations and taunting voices, before another dose of heroin would hit all his synapses and he would slip back into a hazy mind numbing bliss of nothingness.

There would be no nothingness this time, though.

He wouldn't use.

He wouldn't.

He wound his hands tightly around himself as he started trembling again.

He would rather die, than inject himself.

He didn't want to die.

Suddenly he flinched, as a blinding image of white feathers exploded behind his closed eyelids.

_John?_

Of course there was no answer.

John wasn't here; something for which he was eternally grateful for, but the unexpected image had seared itself in his mind. Sherlock's hard drive grateful jumped at this new mental distraction.

The perspective of the vision was decidedly strange. Oddly enough, it wasn't as though he was in his own body looking at John. However his muddled mind couldn't cope and his analysis gradually fizzled out.

It was such a beautiful picture that Sherlock didn't mind not being able to figure out the strangeness of it. The sun was bright, and it was warm and the wind blew loudly in his ears.

In his mind he was flying; safe and content.

Again and again Sherlock brought forward the image, and it was like sips of cool water to a man dying of thirst; not knowing that his intense almost desperate focus was having a odd effect on said good friend, miles away in another part of London.

He would see John again, he thought suddenly to himself even as another wave of pain hit him seizing up all his muscles, in a way that made him feel as though he was dying.

He _wasn't_ going to die.

Not today.


	40. Rescue

Flashback: _Everyone had a fear of something; usually kept hidden so well from the rest of the world that sometimes the person themselves were not even aware of it. But Moriarty was clever in a way that was scary. By some means or the other, Moriarty always found out what this fear was, because another prisoner might be intensely concerned if they were about to be injected with high grade heroin, but Holmes had been so alarmed that he had dislocated his shoulder as he jerked back in his restraints._

Chapter 40- **Rescue**

It was when Moriarty's schemes with the Black Lotus had collapsed, that the criminal mastermind turned all his focus on the man who had thrown a wrench in his plans, so many times before. Already "contracted jobs" had to continue of course, but the crime lord had taken a miniature "vacation" of sorts, inorder to conduct some preventive maintenance before the problem of Sherlock Holmes, got to a point where it started to really affect the business. It was around the same time that Sherlock's baby sitter first laid eyes on Dr. John Watson.

Moriarty's man was astounded and intrigued as everyone else was by the existence of white winged humans, and took to staring at the doctor. That phase past soon enough, especially when your eyes just shifted a couple centimeters to the right and you beheld the whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes. In comparison, it was like chalk to cheese. Watson was steady, unimaginative and just so brown, whereas Sherlock was most definitely not. Watson looked like the type not to put a toe over the line. That was why the henchman was momentarily paralyzed, when boring, predictable John Watson silently glided into the deserted headquarters from out of nowhere.

Recovering himself, he quickly drew his weapon and held it steady on the man's back as the doctor gracefully dropped to one knee, a few feet from the fallen detective.

If not for the white wings, which were in itself an obvious means of identification, he would have thought it was someone else. The doctor always seemed so quiet and laid back that it was difficult to remember that he had once commanded men in one of the most war ravaged areas on the planet. But now, Watson looked every inch like that man again as he peered down at the motionless form of the detective; his body tilted forward, ready for immediate action, with his wings fully flared out behind him to provide balance.

Suddenly, Watson turned his upper body sharply around to face him with a questioning confused look. The small man even raised his hand to brush away some hair that had fallen across his face, but this didn't help in identification because they had never met in person. However, for someone who had a dancing bead of red light shining right over his heart, Watson was unusually cool. It struck the gunman then that perhaps Moriarty had been right, when he grudgingly warned them not to underestimate the ex-army doctor.

He was just about to order the small doctor to his feet though, when the whole world caved in right over his head.

* * *

John turned back to Sherlock, reassured that the armed stranger was incapacitated by Harold and company. The man was going to be sore because their friends had literally landed on his head, but those thoughts were shoved aside, along with the unbelievable way he had plucked out Sherlock's location in a city of nine million souls. John gladly turned off everything that weighed heavily on his mind, as the doctor drank in the sight of his friend's steady breathing.

Up.

Down.

Up.

Down.

'Thank you, God,' he murmured under his breath, grateful that Sherlock had not joined the ranks of those he had loved and lost during his tour of duty.

Letting his medical training take over, he rose quickly to his feet and made a full circle around his best mate's prone body, checking for any blood loss. Happily he crossed one item off his mental medical checklist, and was just stretching out his hand when Sherlock's wing rustled sharply, almost in warning.

Whatever its intent, it made John pause.

When Sherlock agreed to the idea of sleep, he was like a rock and wouldn't even move an inch from whichever piece of furniture he had fallen over. Sometimes though he was a restless sleeper, and his wings would come alive as they twitched ceaselessly in a soft musical hum.

John had stared in concern the first time that had happened, but he hadn't wanted to wake his friend. Sleep was sleep; no matter the quality.

He dropped to one knee again, 'Sherlock?!'

The black wing twitched again almost reflexively but somehow, John doubted very much that the man was sleeping.

The doctor got down on his belly, 'Hey, it's me. Can you raise your wing? I want to see your face.'

The large ball of black feathers got smaller as Sherlock pulled in his wings even further.

'It's okay,' John said soothingly try to keep the worry out of his voice as he picked up the vial of clear liquid vial and syringe to examine, 'you ever coming out of there?'

There was predictably no response.

'It's okay,' John assured him again, 'whenever you are ready, but can I just see your face for one second? Then you can go back and rest.'

In the meantime, loud voices came from behind as the rest of the cavalry arrived.

'MEDIC!' Mycroft shouted as he ran up to where his brother lay. John waved to everyone reassuringly but kept his attention centered on his patient.

'This is a bit of deja-vous,' John joked lightly, as he crawled a little closer to Sherlock. 'But I am staying on the side here, so we don't get tangled up again.'

A little snort came from the living mound, and John grinned in relief, pleased that he had gotten some sort of response.

Suddenly, he noticed the paramedics racing up Sherlock's other side and John waved at them frantically in warning. Unfortunately, he wasn't able to alert them all, and a young doctor gently grabbed one of Sherlock's wings, intent on examination. Everyone of course jumped when the poor man went sailing across the room. Strangely though, the medic managed to safely land on the only empty cardboard box left in the warehouse.

A shocked silence reigned as the remaining paramedics hurried over to assist their fallen comrade. The rest of them just stared at Sherlock's extended wing, as all seven feet of it stood at perfect attention for a few seconds, before it gently folded back on to itself until Sherlock was completely covered again.

In those few seconds though, John had gotten a good look at his friend's face.

'Just back off! Back off now!' he roared to everyone as he sat back on his heels, 'Harold, come here to me!'

'What is it?' Mycroft hissed anxiously, 'he looks like death. Do something!'

Not death...just altered with a fine sheen of sweat on his flushed face, and enlarged eyes that were almost all pupil. Definitely signs of opioid usage.

Harold knelt at his side, and gripped his shoulder reassuringly. 'Sir?'

'Take that fellow outside and find out exactly what this is,' John requested quietly as he showed him the small bottle.

John didn't looked around as Harold flew away, but he knew his orders were being carried out when Lestrade squawked in annoyance; climbing up a rickety ladder to demand that all interrogations be left to the police.

'Put him down!' Lestrade shouted, shaking his fist as John's loyal "guards" engaged in a game of catch and release high in the air, with Sherlock's tormentor.

'I don't know if you are seeing two of me,' John murmured to Sherlock, fighting for calm as he lay back on the ground and extended his hand, 'but I am here. I am right here.'

Emboldened by a lack of response, he inched forward a little more, 'It's me, John, your friend. Don't hurt me, okay?'

There was a slight rustle as the feathers over Sherlock's face parted slightly. Eagerly, the doctor moved closer but stopped when the other man shifted away in alarm. John lay quiet and just let the detective look his full, hoping that his friend would recognise he wasn't a threat.

_Doesn't he know me?_

He didn't realise he was holding in a pained breath though, not until Sherlock waved him forward with a feeble flick of his fingers.

The detective was trying to talk, but he couldn't understand from this distance.

'Say it again, Sherlock?'

'Mol...ly...'

John frowned in utter confusion.

'Molly Hooper, from autopsy?' he asked stupidly.

Sherlock nodded weakly.

'She's not here,' John checked his watch mechanically, 'most likely she's home, sleeping for her shift.'

The detective reached out and grabbed his wrist with surprising strength.

'Find,' he croaked out, 'please...'

_What the bloody hell was this about? What did shy, sweet, much-too-patient-with-certain-people, Molly have to do with all of this? _

Only later, would he put together why Sherlock was so concerned about her current whereabouts.

'You're sick, Sherlock,' John countered firmly as he braced the man's neck preparing to turn him over, 'More than sick! I don't know what this is about, but it has to wait.'

The detective struggled weakly in protest, but stopped when he doubled over coughing in pure agony.

'For God's sake!' John shouted in annoyance, 'what I meant was that _you_ can't go after her at the moment, not that no one is going to bring her to you! You will be the death of me, I swear. This better not be about an experiment!'

John, looking completely harassed like the old woman in the shoe, clasped Sherlock's limp torso to his chest, while directing Sally with a sharp nod of his head to locate the pathologist.

'You don't pay me enough for this,' the doctor then groused affectionately down to Sherlock as he hugged him briefly, frowning at the rapid pulse he felt under his skin.

The detective didn't respond but just lay there, staring upside down at him. 'Molly?'

'I have sent out the police,' he reassured his friend, 'they will bring her to the hospital, which is where you will be going, young man.'

He expected Sherlock to make a face to simulate disgust at such a boring use of his precious time. He didn't expect his best mate to grip his hand convulsively, as though he was afraid they would be separated.

'Let the techs, check you out,' John whispered, as he waved them forward; patting the detective's cold, clammy hand comfortingly, 'I will act as your hospital bed until we can find something more comfortable. I am soft and cushy, just lay back.

Sherlock made a small noise of contentment, as he gratefully sopped up the extra warmth radiating from his flat mate.

Now if Sherlock was his usual self, he would have recognized immediately that John was being excessively chatty. Not all doctor's bothered with this tactic, but keeping up a cheerful banter while you worked, served to keep everyone calm; deflecting attention when the heavy diagnoses came rolling in. A good doctor could usually prattle on indefinitely during treatment, but not if they were connected intimately with their patient. As such, John was very glad that Sherlock was being good and allowing the medics to do their work.

From his cursory analysis, John didn't believe his friend had been poisoned because instead of deteriorating, Sherlock appeared to be recovering his strength. As the moments went by, John would go as far as to say that he was feeling pretty darned happy, but that was before Harold bent over and whispered the requested information in his ear.

A terrible anger flared in John's chest, only to be quenched when Sherlock closed his eyes and his already too frail body trembled violently in his arms.

'Oh, Sherlock,' he murmured sorrowfully in distress, 'what happened to you?'

John gently turned the inside of Sherlock's arm to the light, and winced at the fine pattern of needle marks that stood out against his pale skin. Eventually, the detective mastered himself and opened his eyes again. The normally glittering bright blue were dim with suppressed emotion.

_I'm scared, John._

Afterwards, the doctor would admit his subsequent behaviour was irrational and dangerous. Sherlock should have been transported to the hospital in an ambulance. He could have slipped into a coma or suffered a heart attack on the ride, and the medical equipment there would be needed to save his life.

Even though John knew all of this as he gathered his fallen comrade in his arms and stood up preparing to take flight, all John could think of was that he had to get Sherlock in the air, if only for a few minutes.

He was pretty sure Mycroft had snarled something terribly unflattering as Harold held him off with one hand, but Mycroft was not winged.

He would never understand.

* * *

_Later that night_

Sherlock had been sitting up on his hospital bed for awhile but he didn't dare stand, as his head swam miserably. Curiously, he held out his hand infront of him noting the fine tremor in his fingers. He wasn't out of the woods yet, but the worst was over. In the meantime, he would have to focus on his health to effect a full recovery. A tedious undertaken to be sure but the compulsion to use, although currently dormant, would linger for a while yet.

Giving up his attempts to stand he waved imperiously, beckoning the man in the shadows to come forward. Lestrade sighed but obediently he approached, knowing that if he didn't do so, Sherlock would probably land flat on his face.

He frowned in sympathy though, when the detective stood up shakily; leaning almost his entire weight on his shoulder.

'Just once around the room, okay?' the Inspector insisted but in a far gentler tone than he normally used when trying to rein in Sherlock's exploits. The detective dipped his curly head once to show his acceptance of these terms and then they were off.

First, Sherlock made his way to where Molly lay, all curled up in a thick blanket on the room's sofa. He reached down and laid his hand on her cool hair, noting her dirty tear stained face. She had finally cried herself to sleep at around one in the morning. Conflicting emotions of anger, fear and remorse had reduced her to a pathetic state, and she has spent most of her time huddled in a dark corner of his hospital room; not wanting to see Sherlock horrifyingly fight his way through withdrawal, but not wanting to leave his side either.

Her mental anguish would pass in time, and in the meantime Sherlock would forever be incoherent in his thanks that Moriarty did not realize her true worth to him. Carefully bending over, he picked up one of her beautiful red feathers that had fallen to the ground, and furtively tucked it away in the pocket of the his gown. The Inspector pretended to look in the opposite direction.

Next, Lestrade supported him to where his dear brother lay; sleeping upright in one of the armchairs.

Sherlock snorted softly, as he reached up and tucked in a corner of his sleeping blanket that had fallen open. This was the best way to enjoy his brother as far as he was concerned; asleep with his mouth hanging open in a most inelegant manner.

The detective pointed eagerly, and Lestrade obliged by taking a picture of the sleeping government agent with his mobile.

Finally, Sherlock directed his attention to his best mate, who sat on the matching armchair, with his chin resting on his chest.

'Why is John in handcuffs?' he felt reasonable in asking.

'For his own good,' Lestrade insisted sternly, 'You should have seen his face when he realised that he knew who Moriarty was. I think John would have killed him, then and there if he was in the room. I had to stop him from doing something stupid.'

The Yard detective sighed irritably when Sherlock, even in his weakened state, managed to pickpocket his handcuff keys.

'He's not sleeping,' the Inspector then informed him as he unlocked the cuffs, 'the nurses had to hit him with a tranquilizer. He's going to be out until morning, I think.'

The detective didn't respond, as he silently observed John's wrists which were beginning to bruise where he had struggled against his metal restraints.

'Sherlock, I have something to tell you.'

'The man you arrested in the warehouse is dead,' Sherlock deduced in his normal impassive tone, rolling his eyes in exasperation when Lestrade reeled back in surprise.

'Preliminary report says it was a suicide.'

'It was _not_ a suicide,' Sherlock corrected him, 'Moriarty is not the type of person to leave any loose ends.'

'He's gone to ground,' the other man said softly in regret. 'I can't believe this psychopath is running around free in my city.'

'He'll be back,' the detective said vaguely, 'we must be vigilant.' Clumsily, he then picked up John in his arms and step by step began walking back to his bed.

'You want me to take him?' Lestrade asked as Sherlock paused for a bit to marshal his strength. 'Can your shoulder manage this?'

'It's fine,' he managed to grit out, as he lay the man down as gently as he could, after which Lestrade had to half drag, half carry him back to the chair that John had previously occupied.

It took awhile for Sherlock to recover himself again, but when he did lift his head, the Inspector was there with a glass of cool water at the ready.

'Just one more question,' Sherlock began, gently pushing away all this concern.

'Just one?' Lestrade shot him a skeptical playful look, 'that will be a first.'

'I was out of it for awhile. Was I hallucinating or did...'

'...you were not hallucinating,' the Inspector interrupted him with a smile, knowing what he was asking, 'John flew you to the hospital, himself.'

Sherlock lowered his eyes to the cold tiles, trying to hide the smug, superior look on his face.


	41. The Ghost of Christmas present

**Anote**: This is the last chapter (hides behind sofa). But seriously, I must bring our adventure to a close as I am busy in the first few months of the year, and I don't want to risk leaving the story hanging. Thank you all for reading.

Flashback_: Sherlock had been sitting up on his hospital bed for awhile but he didn't dare stand, as his head swam miserably. Curiously, he held out his hand infront of him noting the fine tremor in his fingers. He wasn't out of the woods yet, but the worst was over. In the meantime, he would have to focus on his health to effect a full recovery. A tedious undertaken to be sure but the compulsion to use, although currently dormant, would linger for a while yet._

Chapter 41: **The Ghost of Christmas present**

Sure enough when Mycroft stepped out his car, John Watson was pacing vigorously along the frost tinged pavement, face set in a heavy scowl that indicated he could not _wait_ to tear a new one into Holmes the elder.

'I will wait here,' Anthea said sweetly, as she closed the door with a sharp click, leaving her employer alone to face the wrath of one ex-army doctor.

John stopped in mid-pace as their eyes locked together.

'WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!' the doctor shouted; wading forth, hands waving wildly.

As one, Mycroft's security team materialized from their cars, but the government agent sent them back with a discrete flick of his fingers.

'Dr. Watson?' he greeted serenely, as the shorter man came right under his nose, vibrating with suppressed emotion.

The doctor took a few deep breaths to encourage calm thoughts.

'This _building_ is not a rehabilitation centre,' John stated between clenched teeth, 'Why is Sherlock here?'

Mycroft narrowed his eyes briefly, wondering if there had been a breach of security at the facility, before he remembered the extra sense that existed between the two.

'God Gad, man!' the older man intoned, 'My brother assured me you were moderately intelligent. Did you really imagine that Sherlock would be amenable to sharing his feelings in group sessions and singing Lean on me, five times in a row?'

Okay.

It sounded sort of silly when Mycroft phrased it like that.

John pulled back and stuffed his hands in his pockets, 'How is he?'

'As good as could be expected,' the agent replied, always pleased by the level headed behaviour that typified Sherlock's flat mate.

'The guards won't let me in,' John continued, giving him a hopeful look.

Mycroft took his arm and attempted to lead him away, mildly surprised as the man dug in his heels and resisted these attempts.

_Not always so level headed._

'By his request and in agreement with his doctors, Sherlock is not allowed visitors.'

John glanced back almost desperately at the drab government building.

'He did ask for you,' Mycroft added and predictably the doctor grew tense, as he looked away.

'Sherlock was initially surprised to learn that you were sleeping in Molly Hooper's guest room for the last two weeks, but pleased. Glad, I suppose that you are personally watching out for her safety even though his network of "degenerates" is already doing so. She is safe from Moriaty.'

'You didn't tell him...'

'...that you moved out Baker Street,' Mycroft finished his sentence, 'I don't think that it would be wise to add to his current stress levels. Long periods of confinement are already a difficult notion for him.'

John gave him a odd look that was a mixture of relief and defiance, as if daring Mycroft to comment on his recent behaviour.

The older man arched a questioning eyebrow, 'Are you ready to return to Baker street? I can have a man assigned to move your things.'

The doctor tried to keep his gaze but eventually looked away; confused, unhappy and anxious as he always was when faced with this recent decision. He needed the space to work out this thing between him and Sherlock. He knew the detective was over the moon as regards all these layers of complexity to their friendship, but this was a little too much for him.

'I deduce that you are not,' Mycroft commented lightly, 'no matter, you still have six weeks to work it out.'

Now John was confused but for a different reason, 'I think you mean two weeks.'

'Sherlock has opted to remain here for two months instead of one, just in case. He's determined to make a full recovery and be at top mental performance.'

The doctor gaped at him, making some swift calculations in his head.

'But that will go through Christmas,' he gasped, eyes opening wide, 'and the New Year!'

Mycroft look bemused, 'It is of no consequence. He doesn't celebrate.'

The surprised look returned to John's face, followed by an impressive scowl at the ugly building currently holding his best mate hostage.

'Is there anyway I can see him?' he begged again, now that he had this new information.

Mycroft sighed quietly but eventually beckoned him with a wave of his umbrella to proceed infront of him.

John looked around in amazement as the doors opened, not at all sure what this place was. Everywhere there were clean white walls and floors, all tastefully decorated with plants and pictures, as scientist-looking people in lab coats clutched their computers as they walked to and fro. All was orderly and neat, but no one here even looked remotely like a patient. John would guess this was a research and development lab, if not for that sensation that now guided him effortlessly to where his friend was.

While they walked, it was explained by Sherlock's handlers that the man's room was outfitted with a one way mirror. John still had to take a few nervous inhales though, before he followed Sherlock's doctor into the small darkened observation room.

John just stood there frozen in place. Eventually he gave a feeble smile, happy to see his friend though even under such circumstances.

Sherlock was seated in a wing back chair reading, looking all the while as though he was back in Baker street enjoying a pleasant evening all wrapped up in his faded blue dressing gown. He didn't look up though, as John walked right up to the mirror and gently pressed his hand against the glass.

'What's wrong?' Mycroft asked in concern as John frowned.

The short man shook his head, 'I'm fine...the last time I was able to...feel...something. Now he's a blank slate.'

Sherlock's doctor looked curious at this exchange, but he was well trained not to mind the business of his superiors.

'Interesting,' the government agent mused, 'but you sensed his presence at this location, yes? Perhaps he has to be in mortal danger for you to get a sense of his emotions.'

'Maybe it depends on where the planet Mars is located,' John responded sarcastically, before sighing in exasperation. The person to figure all this out was trapped on the other side of the glass. 'A heads up would have been nice. You and Sherlock knew about this for weeks. I don't particular care to be blindsided in this fashion.'

'That was Sherlock's idea,' Mycroft said quickly, 'he had some fool notion that you would be upset and leave.'

John gave him an annoyed look; aware that the older man was smiling down at him in a condescending way, as though he was a simpleton. Changing the subject, John pointed at the viewing window, 'I don't care how lavish it is, this is still a prison.'

The two men examined the richly furnished room, which looked nothing like a dreary prison cell, except for the fact that nothing was hidden; not the changing area; not the loo and not the shower.

'For his protection, he has to be isolated and monitored,' Mycroft insisted,' if he was at a regular facility, in perhaps less that two hours he would have found a way to access more heroin.'

'Or worse,' John muttered, as he turned his back on Sherlock's quarters. It was a nice room as far as rooms went, with a large picture window that opened up on to a play field on the outside, but he knew Sherlock well enough to know he needed mental not aesthetic stimulation.

'Can he take calls? Does he have access to the internet?'

Mycroft shook his head, 'I was willing to risk it, but Sherlock was not. He is most determined to remain clean and is eager to get back to his life.'

John missed the look of gratitude that the other man bestowed in his direction.

'Then he's dying inside,' the ex-army captain declared softly, while he studied his shoes, weighing his options.

Suddenly, Sherlock's doctor fell back with a choked cry, almost knocking over a chair in the process. Unbeknownst to his flat mate, Sherlock had come right up to the glass just behind John, and squinted at the mirror. For just one moment as Sherlock opened his large wings, it looked as though John had black feathers. Even Mycroft was momentarily startled by the odd juxtaposition.

Eventually John turned around too but Sherlock, of course not seeing anything through the glass, had already walked away to lay on his bed.

John narrowed his eyes as he checked his watch. It was only two in the afternoon.

* * *

_Had he been asleep?_

Sherlock couldn't even be bothered to deduce it, as he stared at the corner of the room. It wasn't important in any case.

Two weeks.

He knew that it was going to get easier, but that was small comfort now; not when he felt like punching the wall in frustration. Ignoring this, he forced himself to calmly reach for a handful of assorted candy.

_I am master of my transport._

He was starting to put on a little weight. At this rate, he wouldn't be able to fit into his suits. Mycroft would never let him live it down.

_Add 100 skips to workout._

He felt a small wet spot just under his cheek, as he settled back on to his pillow. He closed his eyes and ignored that too.

_I am master of my transport._

However, he seemed to have bigger worries as someone softly hummed a Christmas carol behind him.

He ignored it for awhile but eventually, Sherlock carefully craned his head around and frowned to see John in the corner, with a fluffy garland of pink and silver tinsel around his neck; dragging a straggly pine tree across the floor.

'Oh bugger,' the man said softly, when he saw the mess of pine needles that he had left behind. John got down on his knees and tried to corral the garbage in a small pile with his hands.

'Hello?' Sherlock inquired.

The doctor squeaked comically; startled enough to lose his balance and fall on his bum.'Hey, sorry did I wake you?'

'Are you a hallucination?' Sherlock thought to ask, as he propped himself up on his elbows.

John grinned in a clownish way as he climbed to his feet, 'I am the ghost of Christmas present; here to haunt you. Muwahahaha!'

Sherlock groaned and covered his head with a pillow. There was no way his mind palace would _ever_ conjure up such a response. John was really in his room.

'Why are you here?' he snapped, his temper a bit shorter than normal.

'To keep you company, you blockhead,' John snorted affectionately. 'Are you going to just lay there like a log? Come help me get this tree vertical.'

Sherlock sat up and frowned in confusion, as the ex-doctor after some initial struggle, manage to get the thin tree upright. 'I can't have company, John. Not even you.'

The other man just grunted.

'John?'

'Oh give me some credit, I am not here to jeopardize your recovery!' he sneered, 'you can go ahead and unclench everything.'

Sherlock stared at the back of his head as the man began stringing his tinsel and some clear lights. Gradually the detective observed the changes in his "prison". First the air mattress on the floor and then John's army duffel bag that had fallen over, with wrinkled clothes spilling out.

'What is that?' Sherlock asked stupidly, pointing at the mattress.

John turned around and shrugged, 'I just grabbed what I could, before your brother changed his mind. I trust that you realise that we are going to have switch beds every other night. No way can my back survive sleeping on that thing every night.'

Sherlock stared back and forth between the mattress and his uninvited guest a few times.

'Why are you here?'

John whirled around angrily, upset even more than when the question was poised the first time. 'How can you ask me that?! You are my best friend. We can't be apart! We just can't!'

Surrendering, Sherlock slowly raised his hand while John rubbed his head in a confused manner, 'Sorry, for that. I am being a tad...irrational tonight.'

'A tad?' Sherlock teased with a small smile, as he rose from the bed and came towards him. He took some of the Christmas tinsel and awkwardly hung it from the top most branches.

They proceeded to work in silence for awhile until the all the decorations were used up.

On reflection, Sherlock was actually a bit relieved that John was here where he could keep an eye on him. The doctor was a man of action and he had not doubt that John would be roaming around London trying to do his own investigation and track down Moriarty in his absence. That had to be avoided at all costs. Moriarty was more dangerous than his baby face appearance would suggest.

The doctor stepped back to admire the effect. 'What do you think?'

'It is truly pathetic, John,' the other man said in his usual truthful manner as he sat cross legged on his bed. 'But you already know that. Don't be tedious.'

The doctor broke out in a fit of giggles.

God, he had missed his friend.

'You are always welcome to be in my presence,' Sherlock blurted out unexpectedly as if he had just read his mind, 'but I cannot allow you to come and go. It is too risky. '

Feeling happy, John cocked a jaunty eyebrow at him, 'You would never convince me to bring you drugs in here.'

'I don't doubt that,' Sherlock said with a dark look, 'but I would find a way. I am quite resourceful.'

The doctor glanced around for his bag, completely chilled by the other man's causal words. Sherlock could be downright scary, without much effort.

He pulled out the handful of Christmas cards that had been mailed to them at their Baker street address, and handed them to the other man. John particularly enjoyed the stupid look on Sherlock's face as he thumbed through the stack. He could not have known that the detective didn't normally receive any apart from that of his devoted Mother and his lab mate, Molly.

'Oh and by the way, this is what we bought for Aya,' John informed him, showing the young man a confirmation receipt and photo print out of some fluffy pink creation masquerading as a dress, 'I called Mrs Mueller and she picked this out for her daughter.'

Sherlock hummed softly in thanks, carefully putting aside the drawing that Aya had sent to them in the mail. It was a curious thing, but he liked how she had drawn his head larger than everybody else in the picture.

'And I have brought entertainment!' John declared, as he presented Sherlock with a hastily wrapped package. 'Did you think I had forgotten you?!'

The detective sighed in misery at John's exuberance, but obediently ripped it open to reveal two thick volumes of crossword puzzles. Sherlock gave no outward reaction as he placed the books to one side, and looked up at the man again.

'Tough room,' John joked. He dived back into the duffel bag and pulled out a hard cover note book, 'this you should really like.'

Sherlock examined the blank book in a puzzled fashion, 'What I am to do do with this? You are the one who keeps the blog running smoothly.'

'That one is not from me, it's from Professor Kingsley...'

'...historian at the Cambridge university, specialising in black/white winged mythology,' Sherlock added quickly, 'Yes, I know who he is.'

John pulled out a battered looking letter next.

'We have been corresponding, and he wanted to ask you if you would mind taking some data.'

Sherlock had snatched the letter so hard out of his friend's hand that it left a small paper cut. He all but tuned out the rest of John's explanation as he read the letter and the corresponding experiments. Absently he groped for a pencil to make some corrections; grunting his thanks when John put his pen in his hands.

Eventually, he became aware of the silence in the room, and Sherlock lifted his head. John smiled but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

'What is the matter?' he asked crossly.

John shook his head and looked off in the distance.

'Are you reconsidering staying?' Sherlock then said calmly, 'Although I know you have no family that you wish to visit for Christmas, six weeks is a long time to stay in one place, especially as I have heard you are flying once again. Just...stay for a bit.'

'It's fine, I am not leaving,' the other man insisted as he patted Sherlock's shoulder and absently stared out the window, 'that's not it.'

He looked back around when one of Sherlock's wings brushed inquiringly across his chest, 'Aren't you are afraid of what these experiments uncover?'

'No, why fear or even worry about something you can't control?' the detective asked in some surprise.

John looked a bit exasperated by such logic.

'It's not that simple,' he muttered fretfully, but he didn't press the matter as he started to unpack his underwear and socks in a free drawer in Sherlock's dresser.

'I know it's not that simple,' the other man unexpectedly agreed, 'but I honestly don't feel afraid, not when I am with you.'

John paused. That was an incredibly sweet thing for Sherlock, the-king-of-thoughtless-remarks to say, and he turned around with an astonished smile, 'Thank you.'

'Why are you thanking me?'

The doctor rolled his eyes and continued to unpack. In the meantime, he heard Sherlock mumbling under his breath behind him. 'Preliminary blood work...'

'Err...no, Sherlock,' he cut off that line of thought with a sharp look.

The detective was staring wildly around, looking for bits of their room to cannabilise into a make shift microscope.

'I forbid you to take any of my blood, asleep or awake!'

Sherlock gave him an ugly look, even as John realised how odd his last few words were. He and Sherlock had the weirdest arguments. How was he ever going to survive the next six weeks?

Evidently Sherlock thought the same way too, as he aggressively slid open a tape measure in John's direction; daring him to object to this form of experimentation too.

The doctor sighed and pulled up a low stool to sit on; resigned to being chased around the single room for the next few weeks, for some measurement or the other. 'Well at least wish me a Merry Christmas first.'

'Merry Christmas, John!' the other man yelped excitedly, as he neatly began ruling up his empty note book.

The End


End file.
